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CONTENTS 
PAGE 
NEE Oe reese Re le oe es 7 
EE eee he hc. iy Lotus sus ee uavedocewds 23 
ENUM, ee RSS 3. CAivlga et oa wet de wb eletie'es 24 
EMR Tenet Aes oy Swine de Sewtcaes 24 
Meee vening Wind .. 2... 0.202... e eee c acces 29 
TS OR eee fe ay ee 31 
PT SIVOPOUNOTAL 2. o.8 Sees ee pees Pie idle bet 35 
IROL Lig hiatha diy deh. bles bude ceteris’ ar 
MMMMEESTEQDIE Soe ak als hanced ue ce bine aes 4] 
SS ee) a 43 
DeMIPT OGL Cite PTAITICS. 0... fol. ese eevee ved Es. ae 
Serer ttcaims Island... .. 22.6.4 .i csc eee enon 47 
inicio id iciow-e vale sc Uvips oe one vbed we 48 
MMI TNIVEL . Sec es Mh at. Bate hu late Sok ba? A pt 
el irae lk bah snk a itl yrs,» o.vre-sleie nie b's 53 
Monument Mountain........... REAR R Aik xl taees ek 55 
i. Song of Marion’s Men........ aS a UPN 2 SEB 60 
MEI Y ATTION“ wc ale ops vnc ca ceecssceis vthes seve. G2 
NEM I SPS 55 o.oo Say wile! D's «wind w vd oldWs Ge soa ble 64 
‘Oh Fairest of the Pca Was Clee taney ON Re aad GS 
Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood........... 66 
MTT ass 6.08 ue vn be Vw ieivelv newline aes 68 
“‘T Broke the Spell that Held Me Long”.......... 71 
=; [he Conjunction of Jupiter and Venus............ 72 
Deere ringed: Gentian. ..:........ccc.s csr eeuwe'e 75 
= ‘‘Innocent Child and Snow-White Flower”........ 76 
o@ An Indian at the Burial-Place of His Fathers..... a0 





i, JO0D 


4 CONTENTS 


PAGE 
To'a Cloudy. cee ties oe es ee ee 80 
Yellow Violets ok oy 6 ce 81 
‘“‘T Cannot Forget with what Fervid Devotion”.... 82 
Mi atation oc\etiis ses co nee ie eer Pe Pa Se 84 
Hymn to the North Star... 2.00.22), pce 85 
The Twenty-second of December................. 86 
Hymn of the Waldenses:./...... .Z,0e50 een 87 
Song of the Stars... ecb 2, GY Lo. ane 88 
‘*No Man Knoweth His Sepulchre”............... 90 
‘Blessed are They that Mourn™:..22. oc5 see 90 
Death of the Flowers). 0.. 02 c.05 «. en eee 91 
To'a) Waterfowl ix so. duisie eo sya estas ote 6 aa 93 
The Battle-field ccc. 000. Ad sc seals «5.0 che eee 95 
The Winds). cc Sone da oo Wen es ee 96 
Green Mountain Boys... .........'d. «ose 99 
Future Lite nc eho icic eal alan = © alee 100 
Old'Man’s Counsel J i).). «2. ds ode) Sais cn eee 101 
An Evening Reverie.............. PEE rr se 105 
Antiquity of ‘Freedom....£. 0)... 7006 0s sae 108 
A’ Hymn of the Seas... 02200277, ee ae 111 
Stream of Life . i. sce. cake ca deciles ae ne 113 
Midsummer 0.6 ocis c's odes desk ov cian ore tere eae 114 
Green ,RIVEL 6 soe 505s 50.0 0s l0'4\e alee abe a aieine 114 
A Winter: Piece. as. 00's 4's. « Win oho oe nn sg 117 
Hymn to Death 0.0505 oo). ied a aren 4 ale 121 
Lines on Revisiting the Country..........0.sess=s 127 
‘‘Upon the Moumtain’s Distant Head” ............ 129 
Journeyof Lifes. es ain eines vee eles 0 0 y 0s 9 gene 129 
Love’ and Folly... 03505 ois sie eis 060 eo 5 /anke 130 
Love Of God wis oelic se cice + 4 sis slele 40 alee anna 132 
Fearthy oe os leu: sleywit ibe othe eek Ain 0 6 to at 133 
Catterskill Falls oo. 6. csie 5.4 46 Sele lelee ate an 137 
| SS ce OMI EWM IERE EMER OE 14} 


CONTENTS 5 


PAGE 
NRIs sia. coulis ox e6ale elk se 0's, seas oad ogee ae 143 
Se Ee fel 5 50 Sk VAs lo 6 0's & bine vc o 6 ne Wedenli'n 148 
ERS ole a bcin'da.e 6 ds'ccd o siege bese bie eine 149 
ETOP NS sc becca divs 60s bacaescediesteaun 150 
SiR USER g Cs a's ou c oeje a Ad's os nin valve siess 152 
SUI ME TGS RCHL Sia sip tie clvinid eles 4 cle's cele ewes eect EDS 
POST) ST VANIETIL. So cas oases eh ade eee eee bs bees 154 
Ode for an Agricultural Celebration .............. 156 
UTM CME TUE tt Pe Br is: sue! hohe eiele aie atacaip. ala ollnre LST 
MINER ees atresia gle a's gists GBe esl! ie e sce 160 
NE Ee DET cia usa Gigs’ w'v 6's So) w poo tale, Sales 161 
UMMM ANIME Word tr orac hic gtuia cles aly. sia'die'a bw icel¥ doe 5 wlace she'd 161 
UPEMCMCMNNREEN ERIC Dette 2 has LAG a ow cla Gatco Wave e's ale Bis 165 
ea eo sie iss da Dok ad co Sas wwle dea wW'ee.s 166 
PM ERETITOOGTE . 3. vec mine cen ccc shades salec veamove 168 
MENT Ee oss oa ec ae xint mole ye a wee te naele a 170 
ITE Eg oy g Aeiy oikee sb Hels ed does « dealers 172 
Pemm mrtie tzreek AMaZ0n.. ssc. occ cceeecculeweses 173 
MMII COV CLOT 0. 5 ss) ccie ones renin gd wees geass 174 
NAME eT Oar he oo) d coro, Sui b. melee av eeu eb RMA Ra's 176 
MT re ea belh da raiesed Satedee cb get 178 
Meditation on Rhode Island Coal................. 180 
RT ean Vie. oie ai sis ous nl 0.8. 6) slide al oie 4 dlainips 6 ai aie’ e 184 
ee A OS SS SR 5 ei 185 
NRE EHO ie ae a Gave: veal ea aa nic ws Ww lb ele dln ahead 186 
SRM TETOUINTER Mire ote 5 Se wa Ce aie dw etka me minus shwiee's 189 
UUM TITRI RODEN ra UG iis ot. Nd sta s ale Wie orate ea aca 191 
PURIEPMBMCITAN PENITG: c's pce cicciass oa dioGmales det pee 4 193 
ENR RNAP ME en aan en SNS OV etd cag.s yee ieee a we ae 194 
SUMIMENET RISES EN ARTA OVAE Mollie) ci o'G)e ca doo e'b u's pd cle 'ee's 5 eehain vetele 197 
Scene on the Banks of the Hudson............... 199 
PRUNE LA re Gi atte Vie ig ace Vi & wed 9 aumin’n b elete clay’ 201 


6 7) Val § (AGNTENTS 


PAGE 
Greek Boy... 563 fis Sp ena oer ‘ae 204 
‘*‘When the Firmament Quivers with Daylight’s 

Young Beam” /..5 0. 35 14s pe oo 205 
Vothe River Arve. .3 «css ) 2 eae oe Pee 206 
To Cole, the Painter, Departing for Europe....... 207 
Hymn of the City.....0..0..:03e51+s5 een 208 
A Walk at Sunset... ... csc. 02s 6 ieee eee 209 
Consumption .. . << 0/52: slau ws alee stale einen 212 
The Firmament os. 0. ¢< os nea owc< setae nee ee 213 
Greek Partisan . »). <s:. «0,6 «alee siecle @ ala aln miele one 215 
Strange Lady, - ..)ceciicie «sinister venice so « ee 216 
‘‘Earth’s Children Cleave to Earth”. ...a0 eee 219 
Hunter’s Vision. «..). 2: cic «uo tere ole «ae 220 
A Presentiment, . .% .u..a%u os eeu be «6 «> 222 
Child’s Fumeral oo coco ccc: slave s- cle pice eves ne 223 
Death of Sohiller’. «<5... . 520 cu otis me «0 Se 225 
In Memory of William Leggett................0-- 226 
Painted Cups... .c es. sss. c ee + fa al te een 226 
A < Dream neck 2.55 010 0 0 <ie'esy 0.40 0 wehelers sale itn eeen nan 228 
Maiden’s Sorrow... <..c.:.2s0s005ue eee ieee 230 
Return of Youth.........::..1 000 eee eee 231 
NOD is.» soe 5 cco tare 0'e wulalnte ese le Gale Ola? orayeiy tne siete P2eo 
Crowded Street. 6. 05.06 c20 0 «c's eee os dis se en 235 
White-Footed Deer. . sc... ).. oals ud a-0 » » tle 2a1 
Waning Moon... sc» sos. s 0 000% sles ae oe 239 
Dnknown Way <2... ..ss00 +0 0vcnss% om 0 ee sien 241 
Oh Mother of a Mighty Race.........33@geeeeeee 242 
Land of Dreams: :. .... 0. .056..00. 0s sue 244 
Burial of, Love... 2.0. cces 3 Ue esse w ce 6s ae 246 
‘*The May-Sun Sheds an Amber Light” MPA ek 247 
Voice of Autumn. ofc se. A oe me Ces 248 


Conqueror’s .GTave.s+...ss008s ne sow see een 250 


BRYANT’S POEMS 


—_——__—. 


THE AGES 


When to the common rest that crowns our 
days, 

Called in the noon of life, the good man goes, 

Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays 

His silver temples in their last repose; 

When, o’er the buds of youth, the death- wind 


blows, 

And blights the fairest; when our bitterest 
tears 

Stream, as the eyes of those that love us 
close, 


We think on what they were with many fears 
Lest goodness die with them, and leave the 
coming years. 


And therefore, to our hearts, the days gone 
by— 

When lived the honored sage whose death 
we wept, 

And the soft virtues beamed from many an 
eye, 

And beat in many a heart that long has 
slept— 

Like spots of earth where angel-feet have 
stepped— 

7 


& BRYANT’S POEMS 


Are holy; and high-dreaming bards have told 
Of times when worth was crowned, and faith 


- was kept, 
Ere friendship grew a snare, or love waxed 
cold— 
_ Those pure and happy times—the golden days 
of old. 


Peace to the just man’s memory,—let it grow 

Greener with years, and blossom through 
the flight 

Of ages; let the mimic canvas show 

His calm benevolent features; let the light 

stream on his deeds of love, that shunned 
the sight 

Of all but heaven, and, in the book of fame, 

The glorious record of his virtues write, 

And hold it up to men, and bid them claim 

A palm like his, and catch from him the hal- 

lowed flame. 


But oh, despair not of their fate who rise 

To dwell upon the earth when we withdraw; 

Lo! the same shaft by whichthe righteous dies, 

Strikes through the wretch that scoffed at 
mercy’s law, 

And trode his brethren down, and felt no awe 

Of Him who will avenge them. Stainless 
worth, 

Such as the sternest age of virtue saw, 

Ripens, meanwhile, till time shall call it forth 

From the low, modest shade, to light and bless 

the earth. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 9 


Has Nature, in her calm, majestic march, 

Faltered with age at last? does the bright sun 

Grow dim in heaven? or, in their far blue arch, 

Sparkle the crowd of stars, when day is done, 

Less brightly? when the dew-lipped Spring 
comes on, 

Breathes she with air less soft, or scents the 
sky 

With flowers less fair than when her reign 
begun? 

Does prodigal Autumn, to our age, deny 

The plenty that once swelled beneath his sober 

eye? 


Look on this beautiful world, and read the 
truth 
In her fair page; see, every season brings 
New change, to her, of everlasting youth; 
Still the green soil, with joyous living things, 
Swarms, the wide air is full of joyous wings, 
And myriads, still, are happy in the sleep 
Of ocean’s azure gulfs, and where he flings 
The restless surge. Eternal Love doth keep 
in his complacent arms, the earth, the air, the 
deep. 


Will then the merciful One, who stamped 
our race 

With his ownimage, and who gave them sway 

O’er earth, and the glad dwellers on her face, 

Now that our flourishing nations far away 

Are spread, where’er the moist earth drinks 
the day, 


10 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Forget the ancient care that taught and nursed 
His latest offspring? will he quench the ray 
Infused by his own forming smile at first, 
And leave a work so fair ‘all blighted and 
accursed? 


Oh, no! a thousand cheerful omens give 

Hope of yet happier days whose dawn is nigh. 

He who has tamed the elements, shall not live 

The slave of his own passions; he whose eye 

Unwinds the eternal dances of the sky, 

And in the abyss of brightness dares to span 

The sun’s broad circle, rising yet more high, 

In God’s magnificent works his will shall 
scan— 

And love and peace shall make their paradise 

with man. 


Sit at the feet of History—through the night 

Of years the steps of virtue she shall trace, 

And show the earlier ages, where her sight 

Can pierce the eternal shadows o’er their 
face ;— 

When from the genial cradle of our race, 

Went forth the tribes of men, their pleasant lot 

To choose, where palm-groves cooled their 
dwelling place, 

Or freshening rivers ran: and there forgot 

The truth of heaven, and kneeled to gods that 

heard them not. 


Then waited not the murderer for the night, 
But smote his brother down in the bright day, 
And he who felt the wrong,and had the might, 


BRYANT’S POEMS {i 


His own avenger, girt himself to slay; 
Beside the path the unburied carcass lay; 
The shepherd, by the fountains of the glen, 
Fled, while the robber swept his flock away . 
And slew his babes. Thesick, untendedthen, 
Languished in the damp shade, and died afar 
from men. 


But misery brought in love—in passion’s 
strife 

Man gave his heart to mercy pleading long, 

And sought out gentle deeds to gladden life; 

The weak, against the sons of spoil and 
wrong, 

Banded, and watched their hamlets, and 
grew strong. 

States rose, and, in the shadow of their 
might, . 

The timid rested. To the reverent throng, 

Grave and time-wrinkled men, with locks all 
‘white, 

(Gave laws, and judged their strifes, and taught 

the way of right; 


Till bolder spirits seized the rule, and nailed 
On men the yoke that man should never bear, 
And drove them forth to battle: Lo! unveiled 
The scene of those sternages! What isthere? 
A boundless sea of blood, and the wild air 
Moans with the crimson surges that entomb 
Cities and bannered armies; forms that wear 
The kingly circlet, rise amid the gloom, 

O’er the dark wave, and straight are swallowed 

in its womb. 


lz BRYANT’S POEMS 


Those ages have no memory—but they left 

A record in the desert—columns strown 

On the waste sands, and statues fall’n and 
cleft, 

Heaped like a host in battle overthrown; 

Vast ruins, where the mountain’s ribs of stone 

Were hewn into a city; streets that spread 

In the dark earth, where never breath has 
blown | 

Of heaven’s sweet air, nor foot of man dares 
tread 

The long and perilous ways—the Cities of 

the Dead: 


And tombs of monarchs to the clouds 
up-piled— 

They perished—but the eternal tombs 
remain— 

And the black precipice, abrupt and wild, 

Pierced by long toil and hollowed to a fane ;— 

Huge piers and frowning forms of gods sus- 
tain 

The everlasting arches, dark and wide, 

Like the night-heaven when clouds are black 
with rain. 

But idly skill was tasked, and strength was 
plied, 

‘All was the work of slave’s to swell a despot’s 

pride. 


And Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor 
reign 

O’er those who cower to take a tyrant’s yoke~ 

She left the down-trod nations in disdain, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 13 


Anda flew to Greece, when Liberty awoke, 
New-born, amid those beautiful vales, and 
broke 
Scepter and chain with her fair, youthful 
hands: 
As the rock shivers in the thunder-stroke. 
And lo! in full-grown strength, an empire 
stands 
Of leagued and rival states, the wonder of the 
lands. 


Oh, Greece, thy flourishing cities were a spoil 

Unto each other; thy hard hand oppressed 

And crushed the helpless; thou didst make 
thy soil 

Drunk with the blood of those that loved thee 
best; 

And thou didst drive, from thy unnatural 
breast, 

Thy just and brave to die in distant climes: 

Earth shuddered at thy deeds, and sighed for 
rest 

From thine abomiazations; after times 

That yet shall read thy tale, will tremble at 

thy crimes. 


Yet there was that within thee which has 
saved 

Thy glory, and redeemed thy blotted name: 

The story of thy better deeds, engraved 

On fame’sunmouldering pillar, puts toshame 

Our chiller virtue; the high art to tame 

The whirlwind of the passions was thine 
own; 


14 BRYANT’S POEMS 


And the pure ray, that from thy bosom came, 
Far over many a land and age has shone, 
And mingles with the light that beams from 

God’s own throne. 


And Rome, thy sterner, younger sister, she 

Who awed the world with her imperial frown, 

Rome drew the spirit of her race from thee, — 

The rival of thy shame and thy renown. 

Yet her degenerate children sold the crown 

Of earth’s wide kingdoms to a line of slaves; 

Guilt reigned, and woe with guilt, and 
plagues came down, 

Till the north broke its floodgates, and the 
waves 

Whelmed the degraded race, and weltered o’er 

their graves. 


Vainly that ray of brightness from above, 
That shone around the Galilean lake, 
The light of hope, the leading star of love, 
Struggled, the darkness of that day to break; 
Even its own faithless guardians strove to 
slake, } 
In fogs of earth, the pure immortal flame; 
And priestly hands, for Jesus’ blessed sake, 
Were red with blood, and charity became, 
In that stern war of forms,a mockery anda name. 


They triumphed, and less bloody rites were 
kept 

Within the quiet of the convent cell; 

The well-fed inmates pattered prayer, and 
slept. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 15 


And sinned, and liked their easy penance 
well. 

Where pleasant was the spot for men to 
dwell, 

Amid its fair broad lands the abbey lay, 

Sheltering dark orgies that were shame to tell, 

And cowled and barefoot beggars swarmed 
the way, 

Allin their convent weeds,of black, and white, 

and gray. 


Oh, sweetly the returning muses’ strain 

Swelled over that famed stream, whose 
gentle tide 

In their bright lap the Etrurian vales detain, 

Sweet, as when winter storms have ceased 
to chide, 

Anda all the new-leaved woods resounding 
wide, 

Send out wild hymns upon the scented air. 

Lo! to the smiling Arno’s classic side 

The emulous nations of the west repair, 

And kindle their quenched urns, and drink 

fresh spirit there. 


Still, Heaven deferred the hour ordained to 
rend 

From saintly rottenness the sacred stole 

And cowl and worshipped shrine could still 
defend 

The wretch with felon stains upon his soul; 

And crimes were set to sale, and hard his 
dole 


1€ BRYANT’S POEMS 


Who could not bribe a passage to the skies: 
And vice beneath the mitre’s kind control, 
Sinned gayly on, and grew to giant size, 
Shielded by priestly power, and watched by 
priestly eyes. 


At last the earthquake came—the shock, that 
hurled 

To dust, in many fragments dashed and 
strown, 

The throne whose roots were in another 
world, 

And whose far-stretching shadow awed our 
own. 

From many a proud monastic pile, o’er- 
thrown, 

Fear-struck, the inmates rushed and fled; 

The web, that for a thousand years had 
grown 

O’er prostrate Europe, in that day of dread 

Crumbled and fell, as fire dissolves the flaxen 

thread. 


The spirit of that day is still awake, 

And spreads himself, and shall not sleep 
again; 

But through the idle mesh of power shall 
break, 

Like billows o’er the Asian monarch’s chain; 

Till men are filled with him, and feel how 
vain, 

Instead of the pure heart and innocent hands, 

Are all the proud and pompous modes to gain 


BRYANT’S POEMS 17 


The smile of heaven;—till a new age 
expands 
Its white and holy wings above the peaceful 
lands. 


For look again on the past years;—behold, 

Flown, like the nightmare’s hideous shapes, 
away, 

Full many a horrible worship, that, of old, 

Held, o’er the shuddering realms, unques- 
tioned sway: 

See crimes that feared not once the eye of 
day, 

Rooted from men, without a name or place: 

See nations blotted out from earth, to pay 

The forfeit of deep guilt ;—with glad embrace 

The fair disburdened lands welcome a noble 

race. 


Thus error’s monstrous shapes from earth 
are driven, 

They fade, they fly,—but truth survives 
their. flight; 

Earth has no shades to quench that beam of 
heaven; 

Each ray, that shone, in early time, to light 

The faltering footsteps in the path of right, 

Each gleam of clearer brightness, shed to 
aid | 

In man’s maturer day his bolder sight, 

All blended, like the rainbow’s radiant braid, 

Pour yet, and still shall pour, the blaze that 

cannot fade. 

2 Bryant’s 


15 


BRYANT’S POEMS 


Late, from this western shore, that morning 
chased ; 

The deep and ancient night, that threw its 
shroud 

O’er the green land of groves, the beautiful 
waste, 

Nurse of full streams, and lifter up of proud 

Sky-mingling mountains that o’erlook the 
cloud. 

Erewhile, where yon gay spires their bright- 
ness rear, 

Trees waved, and the brown hunter’s shouts 
were loud 

Amid the forest; and the bounding deer 


Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf 


yelled near. 


And where his willing waves yon bright blue 
bay 

Sends up to kiss his decorated brim, 

And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gay 

Young group of grassy islands born of him, 

And crowding nigh, or in the distance dim, 

Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or 
bring 

The commerce of the world;—with tawny 
limb, 

And belt and beads in sunlight glistening, 


The savage urged his skiff like wild bird on 


the wing. 


Then, all this youthful paradise around, 
And all the broad and boundless mainland, 
lay 


BRYANT’S POEMS 19 


Cooled by the interminabie wood, that 
frowned 

O’er mount and vale, where never summer ray 

Glanced, till the strong tornado broke his 
way 

Through the gray giants of the sylvan wild; 

Yet many a sheltered glade, with blossoms 
gay, 

Beneath the showery sky and sunshine mild, 

Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest 

smiled. 


There stood the Indian hamlet, there the lake 

Spread its blue sheet that flashed with many 
an oar, 

Where the brown otter plunged him from 
the brake, 

And the deer drank: as the light gale flew 


Oo ef, 
The twinkling maize-field Hreticd on the 
shore; 
And while that spot, so wild, and lone, and 
fair, 


A look of glad and innocent beauty wore, 
And peace was on the earth and in the air, 
The warrior lit the pile, and bound his captive 
there: 


Not unavenged—the foeman, from the wood, 
Beheld the deed, and when the midnight 
shade 
- Wasstillest, gorged his battle-axe with blood; 
All died—the wailing babe—the shrieking 
maid— 


20 BRYANT’S POEMS 


And in the flood of fire that scathed the glade, 
The roofs went down; but deep the silence 
grew, 
When on the dewy woods the day-beam 
played; 
No more the cabin smokes rose wreathed 
and blue, 
And ever, by their lake, lay moored the light 
canoe. 


Look now abroad—another race has filled 

These populous borders—wide the wood 
recedes, 

And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are 
tilled; 

The land is full of harvests and green meads; 

Streams numberless, that many a fountain 
feeds, 

Shine, disembowered, and give to. sun and 
breeze 

Their virgin waters; the full region leads 

New colonies forth, that toward the western . 
seas 

Spread, like a rapid flame among the autumnal 

trees. 


Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, 

Throws its last fetters off; and who shall 
place 

A limit to the giant’s unchained strength, 

Or curb his swiftness in the forward race? 

Far, like tne comet’s way through infinite 
space, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 21 


Stretches the long untravelled path of light 

{nto the depths of ages: we may trace, 

Distant, the brightening glory of its light, 
Till the receding rays are lost to human sight. 


Europe is given a prey to sterner fates, 

And writhes in shackies; strong the arms 
that chain 

To earth her struggling multitude of states; 

She too is strong, and might not chafe in 
vain ; 

Against them, but shake off the vampyre 
train 

That batten on her blood, and break their 
net. 

Yes, she shall look on brighter days, and 

gain 

The meed of worthier deeds; the moment set 

To rescue and raise up, draws near—but is not 

yet. 


But thou, my country, thou shalt never fall, 

But with thy children—thy maternal care, 

Thy lavish love, thy blessings showered on 
all— 

These are thy fetters—seas and stormy air 

Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where, 

Among thy gallant sons that guard thee well, 

Thou laugh’st at enemies: who shall then 
declare 

The date of thy deep-founded strength, or tell 

How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall 

dwell? 


~ 


22 BRYANT’S POEMS 


TO THER SPAS. 


Thou unrelenting Past! 

Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, 
And fetters, sure and fast, 

Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 


Far in thy realm withdrawn 

Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, 
And glorious ages gone 

Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. 


Childhood, with all its mirth, 
Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the 
ground, 
And last, Man’s Life on earth, 
Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. 


Thou hast my better years, 
Thou hast my earlier friends—the good—the 
kind, 
Yielded to thee with tears— 
The venerable form—the exalted mind. 


My spirit yearns to bring | 
The lost ones back—yearns with desire intense, 
And struggles hard to wring 
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives 
thence. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 23 


In vain—thy gates deny 
All passage save to those who hence depart; 
Nor to the streaming eye 
Thou giv’st them back—nor to the broken 
heart. 


In thy abysses hide 

Beauty and excellence unknown—to thee 
Earth’s wonder and her pride 

Are gathered, as the waters to the sea; 


Labors of good to man, 
Unpublished charity, unbroken faith,— 
Love, that midst grief began, 
And grew with years, and faltered not in death. 


Full many a mighty name 

Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered; 
With thee are silent fame, 

Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared. 


Thine for a space are they—— 

Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last! 
Thy gates shall yet give way, 

Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! 


All that of good and fair 

Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, 
Shall then come forth, to wear 

The glory and the beauty of its prime. 


They have not perished—no! 

Kind words, remeinbered voices once so sweet, 
Smiles, radiant long ago, 

And features, the great soul’s apparent seat; 


24 BRYANT’S POEMS 


All shall come back, each tie 

Of pure affection shall be knit again; 
Alone shall Evil die, 

And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. 


And then shall I behold 

Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, 
And her, who, still and cold, 

Fills the next grave—the beautifrl and young. 





THANATOPSIS 


To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When 

thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at 
heart ;— 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature’s teachings, while from all around— 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,— 
Comes a still voice—Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 


In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,—— 


oD 


as 


BRYANT’S POEMS 25 


Where thy pale form was laid, with many 
tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall 
claim 


Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 
Ha lost Sach human trace, surrendering up 
hine individual being, shalt thou go 


n mix forever with the elements, 


_To be a brother to the insensible rock 

\And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 

| Turns with his share, and treads upon. The 

1} oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy 
} mould, 


~ Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 


/ 


— 


Ve te 
gpeeen aa 


7 


| 


Shalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wish 

Couch more magnificent. ‘Thou shalt lie down 

With patriarchs of the infant world—with 
kings, 

The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good, 

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 

Allin one mighty sepulchre.—The hills 

Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales 

Stretching in pensive quietness between; 

The venerable woods—rivers that move 

In majesty, and the complaining brooks 

That make the meadows green; and, poured 
round all, 


Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,— 


Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man. ‘The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 


26 BRYANT’S POEMS 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 

The globe are but a handful to the tribes 

That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings 

Of morning—and the Barcan desert pierce, 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 

Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound, 

Save his own dashings—yet—the dead are 
tnere- 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 

The flight of years began, have laid them down 

In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest—and what if thou withdraw 

Unheeded by the living—and no friend 

Take note of thy departure? All that breathe 

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 

Plod on, and each one as before will chase 

His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave 

Their mirth and their employments, and shall 
come, 

And make their bed with thee. | As the long 
train 

Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 

The youth in life’s green spring, and he who 
goes 

{n the full strength of years, matron, and maid, 

And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed 
man,— 

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 

By those who in their turn shall follow them. 


So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, that moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 


BRYANT’S POEMS 27 


| His chamber in the silent halls of death, 

_ Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 

' Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and 
soothed 

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 





THE LAPSE OF TIME 


Lament who will, in fruitless tears, 

The speed with which our moments fly; 
I sigh not over vanished years, 

But watch the years that hasten by. 


Look, how they come,—a mingled crowd 
Of bright and dark, but rapid days; 
Beneath them, like a summer cloud, 
The wide world changes as I gaze, 


What! grieve that time has brought so soon 
The sober age of manhood on? 

As idly might I weep, at noon, 
To see the blush of morning gone. 


Could I give up the hopes that glow — 
In prospect, like Elysian isles; 

And let the charming future go, 
With all her promises and smiles? 


The future !—cruel were the power 

Whose doom would tear thee from my heart, 
‘Thou sweetener of the present hour! 

We cannot—no—we will not part. 


28 BRYAN. S POEMS 


Oh, leave me, still, the rapid flight 
That makes the changing seasons gay, 
The grateful speed that brings the night, 
The swift and glad return of day; 


The months that touch, with added grace, 
This little prattler at my knee, 

In whose arch eye and speaking face 
New meaning every hour I see; 


The years, that o’er each sister land 
Shall lift the country of my birth 

And nurse her strength, till she shall stand 
The pride and pattern of the earth; 


Till younger commonwealths, for aid, 
Shall cling about her ample robe, 

And from her frown shall shrink afraid 
The crowned oppressors of the globe. 


True—time will seam and blanch my brow— 
Well—TI shall sit with aged men, 

And my good glass will tell me how 
A grizzly beard becomes me then. 


And should no foul dishonor lie 
Upon my head, when I am gray, 
Love yet shall watch my fading eye, 

And smooth the path of my decay. 


Then, haste thee, Time—’tis kindness all 
That speeds thy winged feet so fast: 
Thy pleasures stay not till they pall, 
And all thy pains are quickly past. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 29 


Thou fliest and bear’st away our woes, 
And as thy shadowy train depart, 
The memory of sorrow grows 
A lighter burden on the heart. 


—_———__—_—— 


TO THE EVENING WIND 


Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou 
That cool’st the twilight of the sultry day, 

Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow; 
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play. 

Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, 
Roughening their crests, and scattering high 

their spray, 
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! 


Nor I alone—a thousand bosoms round 
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; 

And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night; 
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, 

Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the 
sight. 
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, 
God’s blessing breathed upon the fainting 
earth! 


Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, 
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and 
rouse 
The wide old wood from his majestic rest, 
Summoning from the innumerable boughs 


30 BRYANT’S POEMS 


The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his 
breast: 
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly 
bows 
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, 
And ’twixt the o’ershadowing branches and 
the grass. 


The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 

And dry the moistened curls that overspread 
His temples, while his breathing grows 

more deep; 

And they who stand about the sick man’s bed, 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 

And softly part his curtains to allow 

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 


Go—but the circle of eternal change, 
Which is the life of nature, shall restore, 
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty 
range, 
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once 
more; 
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, 
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; 
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream 


BRYANT’S POEMS 31 


FOREST HYMN 


The groves were God’s first temples. Ere 

man learned 

To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 

And spread the roof above them,—ere he 
framed 

The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 

The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood, 

Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down 

And offered to the Mightiest, solemn thanks 

And supplication. For his simple heart 

Might not resist the sacred influences, 

Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, 

And from the gray old trunks that high in 


eo heaven 
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the 
sound 


Of the invisible breath that swayed at once 

All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed 

His spirit with the thought of boundless power 

And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why | 

Should we, in the world’s riper years, neglect 

God’s ancient sanctuaries, and adore 

Only among the crowd, and under roofs 

That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at 
least, 

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 

Offer one hymn—thrice happy, if it find 

Acceptance in His ear. 


3° BRYANT’S POEMS 


Father, thy hand 
Hath reared these venerable columns, ‘thou 
Didst weave.this verdant roof. Thou didst 
look down 
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose 
All these fair ranks of trees, tT heyeaetay 


sun, 

Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy 
breeze, 

And shot toward heaven. The century-living 
crow, 


Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and 
died 

Among their branches, till, at last, they stood, 

As now they stand, massy, and tail, and dark, 

Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 

Communion with his Maker. These dim 
vaults, 

These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride 

Report not. No fantastic carvings show, 

The boast of our vain race to change the form 

Of thy fair works. But thou art here—thou 
fill’st 

The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 

That run along the summit of these trees 

In music;—thou art in the cooler breath, 

That from the inmost darkness of the place, 

Comes, scarcely felt;—the barky trunks, the 
ground, 

The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with 
thee: 

Here is continual worship ;—nature, here, 

In the tranquillity that thou dost love, 

Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, 


Bra AN T'S POEMS 33 


From perch to perch, the solitary bird 

Passes; and yon clear spring, that, ’midst its 
herbs, 

Wells softly forth and visits the strong roots 

Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 

Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 

Thyself without a witness, in these shades, 

Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength and 
grace 

Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak— 

By whose immovable stem I stand and seem 

Almost annihilated—not a prince, 

In all that proud old world beyond the deep, 

E’er wore his crown as loftily as he 

Wears the green coronal of leaves with which 

Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root 

Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 

Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, 

With scented breath, and look so like a smile, 

Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, 

An emanation of the indwelling Life, 

A visible token of the upholding Love, 

That are the soul of this wide universe. 


My heart is awed within me, when I think 
Of the great miracle that still goes on, 
In silence, round me—the perpetual work 
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
Forever. Written on thy works I read 
The lesson of thy own eternity. 
Lo! all grow old and die—but see, again, 
How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
Youth presses—ever gay and beautiful youth 
In allits beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
3 Bryant’s 


34 BRYANT’S POEMS | 


Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 

Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost 

One of earth’s charms: upon her bosom yet, 

After the flight of untold centuries, 

The freshness of her far beginning lies 

And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 

Of his arch enemy Death—yea, seats himself 

Upon the tyrant’s throne—the sepulchre, 

And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 

Makes his own nourishment. For he came 
forth 

From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 


There have been holy men who hid them- 

selves 

Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 

Their lives to thought and prayer, till they 
outlived 

The generation born with them, nor seemed 

Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 

Around them ;—and there have been holy men 

Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 

But let me often to these solitudes 

Retire, and in thy presence reassure 

My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, 

The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink 

And tremble and are still, Oh, God! when 
thou 

Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire 

The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, 

With all the waters of the firmament, 

The swift, dark whirlwind that uproots the 
woods 

And drowns the villages; when, at thy call, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 35 


Uprises the great deep and throws himself 
Upon the continent, and overwhelms 

Its cities—who forgets not, at the sight 

Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, 
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by? 
Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath 
Of the mad, unchained elements to teach 
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate 

In these calm shades thy milder majesty, 
And to the beautiful order of thy works, 
Learn to conform the order of our lives. 


— 


THE OLD MAN’S FUNERAL 


I saw an aged man upon his bier, 
His hair was thin and white, and on his brow 
A record of the cares of many a year ;— 
Cares that were ended and forgotten now. 
And there was sadness round, and faces 
bowed, 
And women’s tears fell fast, and children 
wailed aloud. 


Then rose another hoary man and said, 
In faltering accents, to that weeping train, 
‘*‘Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead? 
Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain, 
Nor when the mellow fruits the orchards 
cast, 
Nor when the yellow woods shake down the 
ripened mast. 


36 BRYANT’S POEMS 


‘*Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled, 
His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky, 
In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled, 
Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie, 
And leaves the smile of his departure, spread 
O’er the warm-colored heaven and ruddy 
mountain head. 


‘*‘Why weep ye then for him, who, having won 
The bound of man’s appointed years, at last, 
Life’s blessings all enjoyed, life’s labors done, 
Serenely to his final rest has passed; 
While the soft memory of his virtues, yet 
Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun 
is set. 


‘‘His youth was innocent; his riper age, 
Marked with some act of goodness, every day; 
And watched by eyes that loved him, calm, and 
sage, 
Faded his late declining years away. 
Cheerful he gave his being up, and went 
To share the holy rest that waits a life well 
spent. 


‘‘That life was happy; every day he gave 
Thanks for the fair existence that was his; 
For a sick fancy made him not her slave, 
To mock him with her phantom miseries. 
No chronic tortures racked his aged limb, 
For luxury and sloth had nourished none for 
him. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 37 


*‘And I am glad that he has lived thus long, 
And glad that he has gone to his reward; 
Nor deem that kindly nature did him Wiotes 

Softly to disengage the vital cord. 
When his weak hand grew palsied, ard his eye 
Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to 
ie.c: 


THE PRAIRIES 


These are the Gardens of the Desert, these 
The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, 
For which the speech of England has no name— 
The Prairies. I behold them for the first, 
And my heart swells, while the dilated sight 
Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they 

stretch 
In airy undulations, far away, 
As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell, 
Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed, 
And motionless forever.—Motionless?— 
No—they are all unchained again. Theclouds 
Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, 
The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye; 
Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase 
The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South! 
Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers, 
And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high, 
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not—ye have 
played 
Among the palms of Mexico and vines 
Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks 
That from the fountains of Sonora glide 
Into the calm Pacific—have ye fanned 


38 BRYANT’S POEMS 


A nobler or a lovelier scene than this? 

Man hath no part in all this glorious work: 

The hand that built the firmament hath heaved 

And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown 
their slopes 

With herbage, planted them with island groves, 

And hedged them round with forests. Fitting 
floor 

For this magnificent temple of the sky— 

With flowers whose glory and whose multitude 

Rival the constellations! The great heavens 

Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love,— 

A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue, 

Than that which bends above the eastern hills. 


As o’er the verdant waste I guide my steed, 

Among the high rank grass that sweeps his 
sides, 

The hollow beating of his footsteps seems 

A sacrilegious sound. I think of those 

Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here— 

The dead of other days?—and did the dust 

Of these fair solitudes once stir with life 

And burn with passion? Let the mighty 
mounds | 

That overlook the rivers, or that rise 

In the dim forest crowded with old oaks, 

Answer. A race that long has passed away, 

Built them;—a disciplined and populous race 

Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the 
Greek 

Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms 

Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock 

The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields 


SRYANTS POEMS 39 


Nourished their harvests, here their herds were 
four 

When haply by their stalls the bison lowed, 

And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke. 

All day this desert murmured with their toils, 

Till twilight blushed and lovers walked, and 
wooed 

In a forgotten language, and old tunes, . 

From instruments of unremembered form, 

Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man 
came— 

The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce, 

And the mound-builders vanished from the 
earth. 

The solitude of centuries untold 

Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie wolf 

Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den 

Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the 


ground 

Where stood their swarming cities. All is 
gone— 

All—save the piles of earth that hold their 
bones— 


The platforms where they worshipped unknown 
gods—: 

The barriers which they builded from the soil 

To keep the foe at bay—till o’er the walls 

The wild beleaguers broke, and, one by one, 

The strongholds of the plain were forced and 
' heaped 

With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood 

Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres, 

And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast. 

Haply some solitary fugitive, 


‘£0 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense 

Of desolation and of fear became 

Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die. 

Man’s better nature triumphed. Kindly words 

Welcomed and soothed him; the rude con- 
querors 

Seated the captive with their chiefs; he chose 

A bride among their maidens, and at length 

Seemed to forget,—yet ne’er forgot,—the wife 

Of his first love, and her sweet little ones 

Butchered amid their shrieks, with all his race. 

Thus change the forms of being, ‘Thus arise 

Races of living things, glorious in strength, 

And perish, as the quickening breath of God 

Fillsthem, oris withdrawn. The red man too— 

Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long, 

And, near to the Rocky Mountains, sought 

A wider hunting-ground. The beaver builds 

No longer by these streams, but far away, 

On waters whose blue surface ne’er gave back 

The white man’s face—among Muissouri’s 
springs, 

And pools whose issues swell the Oregan, 

He rears his little Venice.’ In these vaiaaas 

The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty 
leagues » 

Beyond remotest smoke of hunter’s camp, 

Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake 

The earth with thundering steps—yet here I 
meet . 

His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool. 

Still this great solitude is quick with life. 
Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers 
They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 41 


And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of 
man, 

Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, 

Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer 

Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, 

A more adventurous colonist than man, 

With whom he came across the eastern deep, 

Fills the savannas with his murmurings, 

And hides his sweets, as in the golden age, 

Within the hollow oak. [I listen long 

To his domestic hum, and think I hear 

The sound of that advancing multitude 

Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the 
ground 

Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice 

Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn 

Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds 

Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain 

Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once 

A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my 
dream, 

And I am in the wilderness alone. 


THE KNIGHT’S EPITAPH 


This is the church which Pisa, great and free, 
Reared to St. Catherine. How the time-stained 
walls, 
That earthquakes shook not from their poise, 
appear 
To shiver.in the deep and voluble tones 
Rolled from the organ! Underneath my feet 
There lies the lid of a sepulchral vault. 


42 BRYANT’S POEMS 


The image of an armed knight is graven 

Upon it, clad in perfect panoply— 

Cuishes, and greaves, and cuirass, with barred 
helm, 

Gauntleted hand, and sword, and blazcned 
shield. 

Around, in Gothic characters, worn dim 

By feet of worshippers, are traced his name, 

And birth, and death, and words of eulogy. 

Why should I pore uponthem? ‘This old tomb, 

This effigy, the strange disused form 

Of this inscription, eloquently show 

His history. Let me clothe in fitting words 

The thoughts they breathe, and frame his 
epitaph. 


**He whose forgotten dust for centuries 
Has lain beneath this stone, was one in whom 
Adventure, and endurance, and emprise 
Exalted the mind’s faculties and strung 
The body’s sinews. Brave he was in fight, 
Courteous in banquet, scornful of repose, 
And bountiful, and cruel, and devout, 
And quick to draw the sword in private feud. 
He pushed his quarrels to the death, yet prayed 
The saints as fervently on bended knees 
As ever shaven cenobite. He loved 
As fiercely ashe fought. He would have borne 
The maid that pleased him from her bower by 

night, 

To his hill-castle, as the eagle bears 
His victim from the fold, and rolled the rocks 
On his pursuers. He aspired to see 
His native Pisa queen and arbitress 


BRYANT’S POEMS 49 


Of cities; earnestly for her he raised 

His voice in council, and affronted death 

In battle-field, and climbed the galley’s deck, 
And brought the captured flag of Genoa back, 
Or piled upon the Arno’s crowded quay 

The glittering spoils of the tamed Saracen. 
He was not born to brook the stranger’s yoke, 
But would have joined the exiles, that withdrew 
For ever, when the Florentine broke in 

The gates of Pisa, and bore off the bolts 

For trophies—but he died before that day. 


‘“He lived, the impersonation of an age 
That never shall return. His soul of fire 
Was kindled by the breath of the rude time 
He lived in.. Now a gentler race succeeds, 
Shuddering at blood; the effeminate cavalier, 
Turning from the reproaches of the past, 

And from the hopeless future, gives to ease, 
And love and music, his inglorious life.’’ 


SEVENTY-SIX 


What heroes from the woodland sprung, 
When, through the fresh awakened land, 
The thrilling cry of freedom rung, 
And to the work of warfare strung 
The yoeman’s iron hand! 


Hills flung the cry to hills around, 

And ocean-mart replied to mart, 
And streams, whose springs were yet unfound, 
Pealed far away the startling sound 

Into the forest’s heart. 


44 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Then marched the brave from rocky steep, 
From mountain river swift and cold; 

The borders of the stormy deep, 

The vales where gathered waters sleep, 
sent up the strong and bold,— 


As if the very earth again 

Grew quick with God’s creating breath 
And, from the sods of grove and glen, 
Rose ranks of lion-hearted men 

To battle to the death. 


The wife, whose babe first smiled that day, 
The fair fond bride of yestereve, 

And aged sire and matron. gray, 

Saw the loved warriors haste away, 
And deemed it sin to grieve. 


Already had the strife begun; 
Already blood on Concord’s plain 

Along the springing grass had run, 

And blood had flowed at Lexington, 
Like brooks of April rain. 


That death-stain on the vernal sward 
Hallowed to freedom all the shore; 
In fragments fell the yoke abhorred— 
The footstep of a foreign lord 
Profaned the soil no more. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 45 


THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES 
Ay, this is freedom!—these pure skies 

Were never stained with village smoke: 
The fragrant wind, that through them flies, 

Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. 
Here, with my rifle and my steed, 

And her who left the world for me, 
I plant me, where the red deer feed 

In the green desert—and am free. 


For here the fair savannas know 
No barriers in the bloomy grass; 
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, 
Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. 
In pastures, measureless as air, 
The bison is my noble game; 
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 
The branches, falls-before my aim. 


Mine are the river-fowl that scream 
From the long stripe of waving sedge; 
The bear, that marks my weapon’s gleam, 
Hides vainly in the forest’s edge; 
‘ In vain the she-wolf stands at bay; 
The brinded catamount, that lies 
High in the boughs to watch his prey, 
Even in the act of springing, dies. 


46 BRYANT’S POEMS 


With what free growth the elm and plane 
Fling their huge arms across my way, 
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train 
Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! 
Free stray the lucid streams, and find 
No taint in these fresh lawns and shades; 
Free spring the flSwers that scent the wind 
Where never scythe has swept the glades. 


Alone the Fire, when frostwinds sere 

The heavy herbage of the ground, 
G-tners his annual harvest here, 

With roaring like the battle’s sound, 
And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, 

And smoke-streams gushing up the sky; 
IT meet the flames with flames again, 

And at my door they cower and die. 


Here, from dim woods, the aged past 
Speaks solemnly; and I behold 

The boundless future in the vast 
And lonely river, seaward rolled. 

Who feeds its founts with rain and dew? 
Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, 

And trains the bordering vines, whose blue 
Bright clusters tempt me as I pass? 


Broad are these streams—my steed obeys, 
Plunges, and bears me through the tide. 
Wide are these woods—I thread the maze 
Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. 
IT hunt, till day’s last glimmer dies 
O’er woody vale and grassy height; 
And kind the voice and glad the eyes, 
That welcome my return at night. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 


A SONG OF PITCAIRN’S ISLAND 


Come, take our boy, and we will go 
Before our cabin door; 

The winds shall bring us, as they blow, 
The murmurs of the shore; 

And we will kiss his young blue eyes, 

And [ will sing him, as he lies, 
songs that were made of yore; 

I’ll sing, in his delighted ear, 

The island lays thou lov’st to hear. 


And thou, while stammering I repeat, 
Thy country’s tongue shalt teach; 

’Tis not so soft, but far more sweet, 
Than my own native speech: 

For thou no other tongue didst know, 

When, scarcely twenty moons ago, 
Upon Tahete’s beach, 

Thou cam’st to woo me to be thine, 

With many a speaking look and sign. 


I knew thy meaning-—thou didst praise 
My eyes, my locks of jet; 

Ah! well for me they won thy gaze, — 
But thine were fairer yet! 

I’m glad to see my infant wear 

Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair, 
And when my sight is met 

By his white brow and blooming cheek, 

I feel a joy I cannot speak. 


47 


45 SRYANT’S POEMS 


Come talk of Europe’s maids with me, 
Whose necks and cheeks, they tell, 

Outshine the beauty of the sea, 
White foam and crimson shell. 

I'll shape like theirs my simple dress, 

And bind like them each jetty tress, 
A sight to please thee well: 

And for my dusky brow will braid 

A bonnet like an English maid. 


Come, for the soft low sunlight calls, 
We lose the pleasant hours; 

’Tis lovelier than these cottage walls, — 
That seat among the flowers. 

And I will learn of thee a prayer, 

To Him, who gave a home so fair, 
A lot so blessed as ours— 

The God who made, for thee and me, 

This sweet lone isle amid the sea. 


RIZPAH 


And he delivered them into the hands of the Gibeon- 
ites, and they hanged them in the hill before the Lord; 
and they fell all seven together, and were put to death 
in the days of the harvest, in the first days, in the 
beginniny of barley-harvest. 

And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, 
and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning 
of harvest until the water dropped upon them out of 
heaven, and suffered neither the birds of the air to 
rest upon them by day, nor the beasts of the field by 
night.—2 Sam. xxi. 10. 


Hear what the desolate Rizpah said, 


As on Gibeah’s rocks she watched the dead. 
The sons of Michal before her lay, 


ya 
le) 


BRYANT’S POEMS 


And her own fair children dearer than they. 

By a death of shame they all had died, 

And were stretched on the bare rock, side by 
side. 

And Rizpah, once the loveliest of all 

That bloomed and smiled in the court of Saul, 

All wasted with watching and famine now, 

And scorched by the sun her haggard brow, 

Sat, mournfully guarding their corpses there, 

And murmured a strange and solemn air; 

The low, heart-broken, and wailing strain 

Of a mother that mourns her children slain. 


**T have made the crags my home, and spread 

On their desert backs my sackcloth bed; 

I have eaten the bitter herb of the rocks, 

And drunk the midnight dew in my locks; 

I have wept till I could not weep, and the 
pain 

Of my burning eyeballs went to my brain. , 

Seven blackened corpses before me lie, 

In the blaze of the sun and the winds of the 
sky. 

I have watched them through the burning 
day 

And driven the vulture and raven away; 

And the cormorant wheeled in circles round, 

Yet feared to alight on the guarded ground. 

And, when the shadows of twilight came, 

I have seen the hyena’s eyes of flame, 

And heard at my side his stealthy tread, 

But aye at my shout the savage fled: 

And I threw the lighted brand, to fright 

The jackal and wolf that yelled in the night. 


4 Bryant’s 


50 BRYANT’S POEMS 


‘‘Ye were foully murdered, my hapless sons, 
By the hands of wicked and cruel ones; 
Ye fell, in your fresh and blooming prime, 
Ali innocent, for your father’s crime. 
He sinned—but he paid the price of his guilt 
When his blood by a nameless hand was spilt; 
When he strove with the heathen host in vain, 
And fell with the flower of his people slain, 
And the sceptre his children’s hands should sway 
From his injured lineage passed away. 


‘*But I hoped that the cottage roof would be 
A safe retreat for my sons and me; 
And that while they ripened to manhood fast, 
They should wean my thoughts from the woes 
of the past. 
And my bosom swelled with a mother’s pride, 
As they stood in their beauty and strength by 
my side, 
Tall like their sire, with the princely grace 
Of his stately form, and the bloom of his face. 


‘‘Oh, what an hour for a mother’s heart, 
When the pitiless ruffians tore us apart! 
When I clasped their knees and wept and 

prayed, 
And struggled and shrieked to Heaven for aid, 
And clung to my sons with desperate strength, 
Till the murderers loosed my hold at length, 
And bore me breathless and faint aside, 
In their iron arms, while my children died. 
They died—and the mother that gave them 
birth 
Is forbid to cover their bones with earth. 


BermrAnN lo POEMS 51 


‘“The barley-harvest was nodding white, 
When my children died on the rocky height, 
And the reapers were singing on hill and plain, 
When I came to my task of sorrow and pain. 
But now the season of rain is nigh, 

The sun is dim in the thickening sky, 

And the clouds in the sullen darkness rest 

Where he hides his light at the doors of the 
west. 

I hear the howl of the wind that brings 

The long drear storm on its heavy wings; 

But the howling wind, and the driving rain 

Will beat on my houseless head in vain: 

I shall stay, from my murdered sons to scare 

The beasts of the desert and fowls of air.”’ 


Pore ARCTIC: LOVER 


Gone is the long, long winter night, 
Look, my beloved one! 

How glorious, through his depths of light, 
Rolls the majestic sun. 

The willows, waked from winter’s death, 

Give out a fragrance like thy breath— 
The summer is begun! 


Ay, ’tis the long bright summer day: 
Hark, to that mighty crash! 

The loosened ice-ridge breaks away— 
The smitten waters flash. 

Seaward the glittering mountain rides, 

While, down its green translucent sides, 
The foamy torrents dash. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 


See, love, my boat is moored for thee, 

By ocean’s weedy floor— 

The petrel does not skim the sea 
More swiftly than my oar. 

We'll go where, on the rocky isles, 

Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles 
Beside the pebbly shore. 


Or, bide thou where the poppy blows, 
With wind-flowers frail and fair, 
While I, upon his isle of snows, 
Seek and defy the bear. 
Fierce though he be, and huge of frame, 
This arm his savage strength shall tame, 
And drag him from his lair. 


When crimson sky and flamy cloud 
Bespeak the summer o’er, 

And the dead valleys wear a shroud 
Of snows that melt no more, 

I’ll build of ice thy winter home, 

With glistening walls and glassy dome, 
And spread with skins the floor. 


The white fox by the couch shall play; 
And, from the frozen skies, 

The meteors of a mimic day 
Shall flash upon thine eyes. 

And I—for such thy vow—meanwhile 

Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile, 
Till that long midnight flies. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 


ROMERO 


When freedom, from the land of Spain, 
By Spain’s degenerate sons was driven, 
Who gave their willing limbs again 
To wear the chain so lately riven; 
Romero broke the sword ke wore— 
**Go, faithful brand,’’ the warrior said, 
‘Go, undishonored, never more 
The blood of man shall make thee red; 
I grieve for that already shed; 
And I am sick at heart to know, 
That faithful friend and noble foe 
Have only bled to. make more strong 
The yoke that Spain has worn so long. 
Wear it who will, in abject fear— 
I wear it not who have been free; 
The perjured Ferdinand shall hear 
No oath of loyalty from me.’’ 
Then, hunted by the hounds of power, 
Romero chose a safe retreat, 
Where bleak Nevada’s summits tower 
Above the beauty at their feet. 
There once, when on his cabin lay 
The crimson light of setting day, 
When even on the mountain’s breast 
The chainless winds were all at rest, 
And he could hear the river’s flow 
From the calm paradise below; 
Warmed with his former fires again, 
He framed this rude but solemn strain. 


53 


54 BRYANT’S POEMS 


‘Here will 1 make my home—for here at 

least I see, 

Upon this wild Sierra’s side, the steps of 
Liberty; 

Where the locust chirps unscared beneath the 
unpruned lime, 

And the merry bee doth hide from man the 
spoil of the mountain thyme; 

Where the pure winds come and go, and the 
wild vine strays at will, 

An outcast from the haunts of men, she dwells 
with Nature still. 


‘‘T see the valleys, Spain! where thy mighty 

rivers run, 

And the hills that lift thy harvests and vine- 
yards to the sun, 

And the flocks that drink thy brooks and 
sprinkle all the green, 

Where lie thy plains, with sheep-walks seamed, 
and olive shades between: 

I see thy fig-trees bask, with the fair pome- 
granate near, 

And the fragrance of thy lemon-groves can 
almost reach me here, 


‘*Fair—fair—but fallen Spain! ’tis with a 
swelling heart, 
That I think on all thou might’st have been, 
and look at what thou art; 
But the strife is over now—and all the good 
and brave, | 


BRYANT’S POEMS 50 


That would have raised thee up, are gone, to 
exile or the grave. 

Thy fleeces are for monks, thy grapes for the 
convent feast, 

And the wealth of all thy harvest-fields for the 
pampered lord and priest. 


**But } shall see the day—it will come before 

I die— 

I shall see it in my silver hairs, and with an 
age-dimmed eye ;— 

When the spirit of the land to liberty shall 
bound, 

As yonder fountain leaps away from the dark. 
ness of the ground; 

And, to my mountain cell, the voices of the free 

Shall rise, as from the beaten shore the thun- 
ders of the sea.’”’ 


MONUMENT MOUNTAIN 


Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild 
Mingled in harmony on Nature’s face, 
Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot 
Fail not with weariness, for on their tops 
The beauty and the majesty of earth, 
Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to for- 
get 
The steep andtoilsome way. There, as thou 

stand’st, 

The haunts of men below thee, and around 
The mountain summits, thy expanding heart 


56 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Shall feel a kindred with that loftier world 

To which thou art translated, and partake 

The enlargement of thy vision. Thou shalt 
look 

Upon the green and rolling forest tops, 

And down into the secrets of the glens, 

And streams, that with their bordering thickets 
strive 

To hide their windings. ‘Thou shalt gaze, at 
once, 

Here on white villages, and tilth, and herds, 

And swarming roads, and there on solitudes 

That only hear the torrent, and the wind, 

Andeagle’s shriek. There is a precipice 

That seems a fragment of some mighty wall, 

Built by the hand that fashioned the old world, 

To separate its nations, and thrown down 

When the flood drowned them. To the north 
a path 

Conducts you up the narrow battlement. 

Steep is the western side, shaggy and wild 

With mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint, 

And many a hanging crag. But, to the east, 

Sheer to the vale go down the bare old cliffs, 

Huge pillars, that in middle heaven upbear 

Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark 

With the thick moss cf centuries, and there 

Of chalky whiteness where the thunderbolt 

Has splintered them. It is a fearful thing 

To stand upon the beetling verge, and see 

Where storm and lightning, from that huge 
wall, 

Have tumbled down vast blocks, and at the 
base 


BRYANT’S POEMS 57 


Dashed them in fragments, and to lay thine ear 

Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound 

Of winds, that struggle with the woods below, 

Come up like ocean murmurs. But the scene 

Is lovely round; a beautiful river there 

Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads, 

The paradise he made unto himself, 

Mining the soil for ages. On each side 

The fields swell upward to the hills; beyond, 

Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise 

The mighty columns with which earth props 
heaven. 


There is a tale about these gray old rocks, 
A sad tradition of unhappy love 
And sorrows borne and ended, long ago, 
When over these fair vales the savage sought 
His gameinthe thick woods. There wasa maid, 
The fairest of the Indian maids, bright-eyed, 
With wealth of raven tresses, a light form, 
And a gay heart. About her cabin door 
The wide old woods resounded with her song 
And fairy laughter all the summer day. 
She loved her cousin; such a love was deemed, 
By the morality of those stern tribes, 
Incestuous, and she struggled hard and long 
Against her love, and reasoned with her heart, 
As simple Indian maiden might. In vain. 
Then her eye lost its lustre, and her step 
Its lightness, and the gray old men that passed 
Her dwelling, wondered that they heard no 
more 
The accustomed song and laugh of her, whose 
looks 


58 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, they 
said, 

Upon the Winter of theirage. She went 

To weep where no eye saw, and was not found 

When allthe merry girls were met to dance, 

And all the hunters of the tribe were out; 

Nor when they gathered from the rustling 
husk 

The shining ear; nor when, by the river’s 
side, 

They pulled the grape, and startled the wild 
shades | 

With sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed Indian 
dames 

Would whisper to each other, as they saw 

Her wasting form, and say, she girl will die. 

One day into the bosom of a friend, 

A playmate of her young and innocent years, 

She poured her griefs. ‘*Thou know’st, and 
thou alone,’’ 

She said, ‘‘for I have told thee, all my love, 

And guilt, and sorrow. Iam sick of life. 

All night I weep in darkness, and the morn 

Glares on me, as upon a thing accursed, 

That has no business on the earth. I hate 

The pastimes and the pleasant toils that once 

I loved; the cheerful voices of my friends 

Have an unnatural horror in mine ear. 

In dreams my mother, from the land of souls, 

Calls me and chides me. All that look on 
me 

Do seem to know my shame; I cannot bear 

Their eyes; I cannot from my heart root out 

The love that wrings it so, and I must die.”’ 


BRYANT’S POEMS 59 


It was a summer morning, and they went 
To this old precipice. About the cliffs 
Lay garlands, ears of maize, and shaggy skins 
Of wolf and bear, the offerings.of the tribe 
Here made tothe Great Spirit, for they deemed, 
Like worshippers of the elder time, that God 
Doth walk on the high places and affect 
The earth-o’erlooking mountains. She had on 
The ornaments with which her father loved 
To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl, 
And bade her wear when stranger warriors 
came 
To be his guests. Here the friends sat them 
down, 
And sang, all day, old songs of love and death, 
And decked the poor wan victim’s hair with 
flowers, 
And prayed that safe and swift might be her way 
To the calm world of sunshine, where no grief 
Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red. 
Beautiful lay the region of her tribe 
Below her— waters resting in the embrace 
Of the wide forest, and maize-planted glades 
Opening amid the leafy wilderness. 
She gazed upon it long, and at the sight 
Of her own village peeping through the trees, 
cand her own dwelling, and the cabin roof 
Of him she loved with an unlawful love, 
And came to die for, a warm gush of tears 
Ran from her eyes. But when the sun grew 
low 
And the hill shadows long, she threw herself 
From the steep rock and perished. There was 
scooped, 


60 BRYANT’S POEMS — 


Upon the mountain’s southern slope, a grave; 

And there they laid her, in the very garb 

With which the maiden decked herself for 
death 

With the same withering wild flowers in her 
hair. 

And o’er the mould that covered her, the tribe 

Built up a simple monument, iu cone 

Of small loose stones. Thenceforward, all who 
passed, 

Hunter, and dame, and virgin, laid a stone 

In silence on the pile. It stands there yet. 

And Indians from the distant West, who come 

To visit where their fathers’ bones are laid, 

Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and to this day 

The mountain where the hapless maiden 
died 

Is called the Mountain of the Monument. 


SONG OF MARION’S MEN 


Our band is few, but true and tried, 
Our leader frank and bold; 

The British soldier trembles 
When Marion’s name is told. 

Our fortress is the good greenwood, 
Our tent the cypress-tree; 

We know the forest round us, 
As seamen know the sea. 

We know its walls of thorny vines, 
Its glades of reedy grass, 

Its safe and silent islands 
Within the dark morass. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 61 


Woe to the English soldiery 
That little dread us near! 

On them shall light at midnight 
A strange and sudden fear: 

When waking to their tents on fire 
They grasp their arms in vain, 

#.nd they who stand to face us 
Are beat to earth again; 

And they who fly in terror deem 

_Amighty host behind, 

And hear the tramp of thousands 
Upon the hollow wind. 


Then sweet the hour that brings release 
_ From danger and from <oil: 
We talk the battle over, 
And share the battle’s spoil. 
The woodland rings with laugh and shout, 
As if a hunt were up, 
And woodland flowers are gathered 
To crown the soldier’s cup. 
With merry songs we mock the wind 
That in the pine-top grieves, 
And slumber long and sweetly, 
On beds of oaken leaves. 


Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
The band that Marion leads— 

The glitter of their rifles, 

_ The scampering of their steeds, 

’Tis life our fiery barbs to guide 
Across the moonlight plains; 

’*7 is life to feel the night-wind 


BRYANT’S POEMS 


That lifts their tossing manes. 
A moment in the British camp— 
A moment—and away 
Back to the pathless forest, 
Before the peep of day. 


Grave men there are by broad Santee, 
Grave men with hoary hairs, 

Their hearts are all with Marion, 
For Marion are their prayers. 

And lovely ladies greet our band, 
With kindliest welcoming, 

With smiles like those of summer, 
And tears like those of spring. 

For them we wear these trusty arms, 
And lay them down no more 

Till we have driven the Briton, 
Forever from our shore. 


THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR 


Gather him to his grave again 
And solemnly and softly lay, 
Beneath the verdure of the plain, 
The warrior’s scattered bones away. 
Pay the deep reverence, taught of old, 
The homage of man’s heart to death; 
Nor dare to trifle with the mould 
Once hallowed by the Almighty’s breath. 


The soul hath quickened every part— 
That remnant of a martial brow, 

Those ribs that held the mighty heart, 
That strong arm—strong no longer now. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 63 


Spare them, each mouldering relic spare, 
Of God’s own image; let them rest, 
Till not a trace shall speak of where 
The awful likeness was impressed 


For he was fresher from the hand 

That formed of earth the human face, 
And to the elements did stand 

In nearer kindred than our race. 
In many a flood to madness tossed, 

In many a storm has been his path; 
He hid him not from heat or frost, 

But met them, and defied their wrath. 


Then they were kind—the forests here, 
Rivers, and stiller waters paid 

A tribute to the net and spear 
Of the red ruler of the shade. 

Fruits on the woodland branches lay, 
Roots in the shaded soil below, 

- The stars looked forth to teach his way, 

The still earth warned him of the foe. 


A noble race! but they are gone, 
With their old forests wide and deep, 
And we have built our homes upon 
Fields where their generations sleep. 
Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, 
Upon their fields our harvest waves. 
Our lovers woo beneath their moon— 
Ah, let us spare, at least, their graves! 


64 BRYANT’S POEMS 


THE HURRICANE 


Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh, 
I know thy breath in the burning sky! 
And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, 
For the coming of the hurricane! 

And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, 
Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails: 
Silent, and slow, and terribly strong, 

The mighty shadow is borne along, 

Like the dark eternity to come; 

While the world below, dismayed and dumb, 
Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere 
Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. 

They darken fast—and the golden blaze 
Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, 

And he sends through the shade a funeral ray— 
A glare that is neither night nor day, 

A beam that touches, with hues of death, 

The clouds above and the earth beneath. 

To its covert glides the silent bird, 

While the hurricane’s distant voice is heard, 
Uplifted among the mountains round, 

And the forests hear and answer the sound. 

He is come! he is come! do ye not behold 
His ainple robes on the wind unrolled? 

Giant of air! we bid thee hail!— 
How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale; 
How his huge and writhing arms are bent, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 65 


To clasp the zone of the firmament, 

And fold, at length, in their dark embrace, 
From mountain to mountain the visible space. 
Darker—still darker! the whirlwinds bear 

The dust of the plains to the middle air: 
And hark to the crashing, long and loud, 
Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud! 
You may trace its path by the flashes that start 
From the rapid wheels where’er they dart, 
As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, 
And flood the skies with a lurid glow. 
What roar is that?—’tis the rain that breaks 
In torrents away from the airy lakes, 
Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, 
And shedding a nameless horror round. 
Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and 
skies, 
With the very clouds!—ye are lost to my eyes. 
I seek ye vainly, and see in your place 
The shadowy tempest that sweeps through 
space, | 
A whirling ocean that fills the wall 
Of the crystal heaven and buries all. 
And I, cut off from the world, remain 
Alone with the terrible hurricane. 


“OH FAIREST OF THE RURAL 
MAIDS”’ 


Oh fairest of the rural maids! 
Thy birth was in the forest shades; 
Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, 
Were all that met thy infant eye. 

5 Bryant’s 


56 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, 
Were ever in the sylvan wild; 

And all the beauty of the place, 

Is in thy heart and on thy face. 


The twilight of the trees and rocks 
Ts in the light shade of thy locks; 
Thy step is as the wind, that weaves 
Its playful way among the leaves. 


Thy eyes are springs, in whose serene 
And silent waters heaven is seen; 
Their lashes are the herbs that look 
On their young figures in the brook. 


The forest depths, by foot unpressed, 
Are not more sinless than thy breast; 
The holy peace that fills the air 
Of those calm solitudes is there. 





INSCRIPTION FOR THE \EN trees 
TO A WOOD 


Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which 
needs 
No school of long experience, that the world 
Is full of guilt and misery, and has seen 
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares, 
To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood 
And view the haunts of Nature. The calm 
shade 
Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet 
breeze 


BRYANT’S POEMS é7 


That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft 
a balm 

To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here 

Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men 

And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse 

Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth, 

Butnotin vengeance. God hath yoked to Guilt 

Her pale tormentor, Misery. Hence these 
shades 

Are still the abodes of gladness; the thick roof 

Of green and stirring branches is alive 

And musical with birds, that sing and sport 

In wantonness of spirit; while below 

The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect, 

Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects tn the shade 

Try their thin wings and dance in the warm 
beam 

That waked them into life. Even the green 
trees 

Partake the deep contentment; as they bend 

To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky 

Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene. 

Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to 
enjoy 

Existence, than the winged plunderer 

That sucks its sweets. The massy rocks them- 
selves, 

And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate 
Lrees 

That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude 

Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark 

fae COOTS, 
With all their earth upon them, twisting high, 
Breathed fixed tranquillity. The rivulet 


53 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o’er its 
bed 

Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, 

Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice 

In its own being. Softly tread the marge, 

Lest from her midway perch thou scare the 
wren 

That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, 

That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee, 

Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass 

Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace. 





‘TO A MOSQUITO 


Fair insect! that, with threadlike legs spread 
out, 
And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing, 
Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail’st about, 
In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing, 
And tell how little our large veins should bleed, 
Would we but yield them to thy bitter need. 


Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse, 
Full angrily, men hearken to thy plaint, 
Thou gettest many a brush, and many a curse. 
For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and 
faint; 
Even the old beggar, while he asks for food, 
Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could. 


I call thee stranger, for the town, 1 ween, 
Has not the honor of so proud a birth, 
Thou com’st from Jersey meadows, fresh and 
green, 


BRYANT’S POEms 69 


The offspring of the gods, though born on 
earth; 
For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she, 
The ocean nymph, that nursed thy infancy. 


Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung, 
And when, at length, thy gauzy wings grew 
strong, 

Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung, 
Rose in the sky and bore thee soft along: 
The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy 

way, 
And danced and shone beneath the billowy 
bay. 


And calm, afar, the city spires arose, — 
Thence didst thou hear the distant hum of 
men, 
And as its grateful odors met thy nose, 
Didst seem to smell thy native marsh again; 
Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight 
Thy tiny song's grew shriller with delight. 


At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway— 
Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks 
kissed 
By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray 
Shone through the snowy veils like stars 
through mist; 
And fresh as morn, on manya cheek and 
chin, 
Bloomed the bright blood through the trans- 
parent skin. 


70 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Oh, these were sights to touch an anchorite! 
What! do I hear thy slender voice complain? 

Thou wailest, when I talk of beauty’s light, 
As if it brought the memory of pain: 

Thou art a wayward being—well—come near, 

And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear, 


What say’st thou—slanderer!—rouge makes 
thee sick? 
And China bloom at best is sorry food? 
And Rowland’s Kalydor, if laid on thick, 
Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for 
blood? 
Go! ’twas a just reward that met thy crime— 
But shun the sacrilege another time. 


That bloom was made to look at, not to touch, 
To worship, not approach, that radiant white; 
And well might sudden vengeance light on 
such 
As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite. 
Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and 
admired, 
Murmured thy adoration and retired. 


Thou’rt welcome to the town—but why come 
here 

To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee? 
Alas! the little blood I have is dear, 

And thin will be the banquet drawn from me. 
Look round—the pale-eyed sisters in my cell, 
Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, 

dwell. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 71 


Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood 
Enriched by generous wine and costly meat, 
On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud, 
Fix thy light pump and press thy freckled 
feet: 
Go to the men for whom, in ocean’s halls, 
The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls. 


There corks are drawn, and the red vintage 
flows 
To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now 
The ruddy cheek and now the ruddier nose 
Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the 
brow; 
And, when the hour of sleep its quiet brings, 
No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings. 





feshowk THE SPELL THAT HELD 
ME LONG” 


I broke the spell that held me long, 
The dear, dear witchery of song. 

I said, the poet’s idle lore 

Shall waste my prime of years no more, 
For Poetry, though heavenly born, 
Consorts with poverty and scorn. 


I broke the spell—nor deemed its power 
Could fetter me another hour. 

Ah, thoughtless! how could I forget 

Its causes were around me yet? 

For wheresoe’er I looked, the while, 
Was Nature’s everlasting smile. 


TZ BRYANT’S POEMS 


Still came and lingered on my sight 

Of flowers and streams the bloom and light, 
And glory of the stars and sun ;— 

And these and poetry are one. 

They, ere the world had held me long, 
Recalled me to the love of song. 


THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND 
VENUS 


I would not always reason. The straight 
path 

Wearies us with its never-varying lines, 
And we grow melancholy. I would make 
Reason my guide, but she should sometimes sit 
Patiently by the way-side, while I traced 
The mazes of the pleasant wilderness 
Around me. She should be my counsellor, 
But not my tyrant. For the spirit needs 
Impulses from a deeper source than hers, 
And there are motions, in the mind of man, 
That she must look upon with awe. I bow 
Reverently to her dictates, but not less 
Hold to the fair illusions of old time— 
Illusions that shed brightness over life, 
And glory over nature. Look, even now, 
Where two bright planets in the twilight meet, 
Upon the saffron heaven,—the imperial star 
Of Jove, and she that from her radiant urn 
Pours forth the light of love. Let me believe, 
Awhile, that they are met for ends of good, 
Amid the evening glory, to confer 
Of men and their affairs, and to shed down 


BRYANT’S POEMS 73 


~. Kind influence. Lo! their orbs burn more 


bright, 
And shake out softer fires! The great earth 
feels 
The gladness and the quiet of the time. 
Meekly the mighty river, that infolds 
This mighty city, smooths his front, and far 
Glitters and burns even to the rocky base 
Of the dark heights that bound him to the West; 
And a deep murmur, from the many streets, 
Rises like a thanksgiving. Put we hence 
Dark and sad thoughts awhile—there’s time 
for them 
Hereafter—on the morrow we will meet, 
With melancholy looks, to tell our griefs, 
And make each other wretched; this calm hour, 
This balmy, blessed evening, we will give 
To cheerful hopes and dreams of happy days, 
Born of the meeting of those glorious stars. 


Enough of drought has parched the year, and 
scared 

The land with dread of famine. Autumn, yet, 
Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits. 
The dog-star shall shine harmless; genial days 
Shall softly glide away into the keen 
And wholesome cold of winter; he that fears 
The pestilence, shall gaze on those pure beams, 
And breathe, with confidence, the quiet air. 


Emblems of power and beauty! well may they 
Shine brightest on our borders, and withdraw 
Toward the great Pacific, marking out 
The path of empire. Thus, in our own land, 


74 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Erelong, the better Genius of our race, 

Having encompassed earth, and tamed its 
tribes, 

Shall sit him down beneath the farthest West, 

By the shore of that calm ocean, and look back 

On realms made happy. 


Light the nuptial torch, 

And say the glad, yet solemn rite, that knits 
The youth and maiden. Happy days to them 
That wed this evening!—a long life of love, 
And blooming sons and daughters! Happy they 
Born at this hour,—for they shall see an age 
Whiter and holier than the past, and go 
Late to their graves. Men shall wear softer 

hearts, 
Ana shudder at the butcheries of war, 
As now at other murders. 


Hapless Greece! 

Enough of blood has wet thy rocks, and stained 
Thy rivers; deep enough thy chains have worn 
Their links into thy flesh; the sacrifice 
Of thy pure maidens, and thy innocent babes, 
And reverend priests, has expiated all 
Thy crimes of old. In yonder mingling lights 
There is an omen of good days for thee. 
Thou shalt arise from ’midst the dust and sit 
Again among the nations. Thine own arm 
Shall yet redeem thee. Not in wars like thine 
The worldtakes part. Beitastrife of kings, — 
Despot with despot battling for a throne,— 
And Europe shall be stirred throughout her 

realms, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 15 


Nations shall put on harness, and shall fall 

Upon each other, and in all their bounds 

The wailing of the childless shall not cease. 

Thine is a war for liberty, and thou 

Must fight it single-handed. The old world 

Looks coldly on the murderers of thy race, 

And leaves thee to the struggle; and the new, — 

I fear me thou couldst tell a shameful tale 

Of fraud and lust of gain;—thy treasury 
drained, 

And Missolonghi fallen. Yet thy wrongs 

Shall put new strength into thy heart and hand, 

And God and thy good sword shall yet work out, 

For thee, a terrible deliverance. 


TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN 


Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, 
And colored with the heaven’s own blue, 
That openest, when the quiet light 
succeeds the keen and frosty night. 


Thou comest not when violets lean 

O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 
Or columbines, in purple dressed, 

Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest. 


Thou waitest late, and com’st alone, 
When woods are bare and birds are flown, 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near his end. 


76 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue—blue—as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 


I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
May look to heaven as I depart. 


“INNOCENT CHILD AND SNOW-WHITE 
FLOWER’”’ 


Innocent child and snow-white flower! 

Well are ye paired in your opening hour. 

Thus should the pure and the lovely meet, 

Stainless with stainless, and sweet with 
sweet. 


White as those leaves, just blown apart, 
Are the folds of thy own young heart; 
Guilty passion and cankering care 
Never have left their traces there. 


Artless one! though thou gazest now 

O’er the white blossom with earnest brow, 
Soon will it tire thy childish eye, 

Fair as it is, thou wilt throw it by. 


Throw it aside in thy weary hour, 

Throw to the ground the fair white flower, 
Yet, as thy tender years depart, 

Keep that white and innocent heart. 


AN 


BRYANT’S POEMS 


OF HIS FATHERS 


It is the spot I came to seek,— 
My fathérs’ ancient burial-place, 

Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, 
Withdrew our wasted race. 

It is the spot—I know it well— 

Of which our old traditions tell. 


For here the upland bank sends out 
A ridge toward the river-side; 
I know the shaggy hills about, 
The meadows smooth and wide, 
The plains, that, toward the southern sky, 
Fenced east and west by mountains lie. 


A white man, gazing on the scene, 
Would say a lovely spot was here, 

And praise the lawns, so fresh and green, 
Between the hills so sheer. 

I like it not—I would the plain 

Lay in its tall old groves again. 


The sheep are on the slopes around, 
The cattle in the meadows feed, 
And laborers turn the crumbling ground, 
Or drop the yellow seed, 
And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, 
Whirl the bright chariot o’er the way. 


17 


INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE 


BRYANT’S POEMS 


Methinks it were a nobler sight 
To see these vales in woods arrayed, 
Their summits in the golden light, 
Their trunks in grateful shade, 
And herds of deer, that bounding go 
O’er rills and prostrate trees below. 


And then to mark the lord of all, 
The forest hero, trained to wars, 
Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall, 
And seamed with glorious scars, 
Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare 
The wolf, and grapple with the bear. 


This bank, in which the dead were laid, 
Was sacred when its soil was ours: 
Hither the artless Indian maid 
Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, 
And the gray chief and gifted seer 
Worshipped the god of thunders here. 


But now the wheat is green and high 
On clods that hid the warrior’s breast, 
And scattered in the furrows lie 
The weapons of his rest, 
And there, in the loose sand, is thrown 
Of his large arm the mouldering bone. 


Ah, little thought the strong and brave, 
Who bore the lifeless chieftain forth; 
Or the young wife, that weeping gave 
Her first-born to the earth, 
That the pale race, who waste us now, 
Among their bones should guide the plough. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 79 


[hey waste us—ay—like April snow 
In the warm noon, we shrink away; 

And fast they follow, as we go 
Towards the setting day,— 

Till they shall fill the land, and we 

Are driven into the western sea, 


But I behold a fearful sign, 
To which the white men’s eyes are blind, 
Their race may vanish hence, like mine, 
And leave no trace behind, 
Save ruins o’er the region spread, 
And the white stones above the dead. 


Before these fields were shorn and tilled, 
Full to the brim our rivers flowed; 
The melody of waters filled 
The fresh and boundless wood; 
And torrents dashed and rivulets played, 
And fountains spouted in the shade. 


Those grateful sounds are heard no more, 
The springs are silent in the’sun, 
The rivers, by the blackened shore, 
With lessening current run; 
The realm our tribes are crushed to get 
May be a barren desert yet. 


80 BRYANT’S POEMS 


TO AY GLOUD 


Beautiful cloud! with folds so soft and fair, 

Swimming in the pure quiet air! 

Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below 

Thy shadow o’er the vale moves slow; 

Where, midst their labor, pause the reaper train 

As cool it comes along the grain. 

Beautiful cloud! I would I were with thee 

In thy calm way o’er land and sea: 

To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look 

On Earth as on an open book; 

On streams that tie her realms with silver 
bands, 

And the long ways that seam her lands; 

And hear her humming cities, and the sound 

Of the great ocean breaking round. 

Ay—I would sail upon thy air-borne car 

To blooming regions distant far, 

To where the sun of Andalusia shines 

On his own olive-groves and vines, 

Or the soft lights of Italy’s bright sky 

In smiles upon her ruins lie. 

But I would woo the winds to let us rest 

O’er Greece long fettered and oppressed, 

Whose sons at length have heard the call that 
comes 

From the old battle-fields and tombs, 

And risen, and drawn the sword, and on the foe 


BRYANT’S POEMS 81 


Have dealt the swift and desperate blow, 

And the Othman power is cloven, and the stroke 
Has touched its chains, and they are broke. 
Ay, we would linger till the sunset there 
Should come, to purple all the air, | 
And thou reflect upon the sacred ground 

The ruddy radiance streaming round. 


Bright meteor! for the summer noontide made! 

Thy peerless beauty yet shall fade. 

The sun, that fills with light each glistening 
fold, 

Shall set, and leave thee dark and cold: 

The blast shall rend thy skirts, or thou may’st 
frown 

In the dark heaven when storms come down, 

And weep in rain, till man’s inquiring eye 

Miss thee, forever, from the sky. 


THE YELLOW VIOLET 


When beechen buds begin to swell, 

And woods the blue-bird’s warble know, 
The yellow violet’s modest bell 

Peeps from the last year’s leaves below. 


Ere russet fields their green resume, 
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, 
To meet thee, when thy faint perfume 

Alone is in the virgin air. 


Of all her train, the hands of Spring 
First plant thee in the watery mould, 

And I have seen thee blossoming 
Beside the snow-bank’s edges cold. 

6 Bryant’s 


BRYANT’S POEMS 


Thy parent sun, who bade thee view 
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, 

Has. bathed thee in his own bright hue, 
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. 


Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, 
And earthward bent thy gentle eye, 
Unapt the passing view to meet, 
When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. 


Oft, in the sunless April day, 
Thy early smile has stayed my walk, 
But ’midst the gorgeous blooms of May, 
I passed thee on thy humble stalk. 


So they, who climb to wealth, forget 
The friends in darker fortunes tried. 
[ copied them—but I regret 
That I should ape the ways of pride. 


And when again the genial hour 
Awakes the painted tribes of light, 

I’ll not o’erlook the modest flower . 
That made the woods of April bright. 





“I CANNOT FORGET WITH WHAT 
FERVID DEVOTION. 


I cannot forget with what fervid devotion 

I worshipped the visions of verse and of fame; 

Each gaze at the glories of earth, sky, and 
ocean, 

To my kindled emotions, was wind over 
flame. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 83 


And deep were my musings in life’s early blos- 
som, 
’Mid the twilight of mountain groves wan- 
dering long; 
How thrilled my young veins, and how 
throbbed my full bosom, 
When o’er me descended the spirit of song. 


*"Mong the deep-cloven fells that for ages had 
listened 
To the rush of the pebble-paved river be- 
tween, 
Where the kingfisher screamed and gray prec- 
ipice glistened, 
All breathless with awe have I gazed on the 
scene; 


Till I felt the dark power o’er my reveries 
stealing, 
From his throne in the depth of that stern 
solitude, 
And he breathed through iny lips, in that tem- 
pest of feeling, 
Strains warm with his spirit, though artless 
and rude. 


Bright visions! I mixed with the world and ye 
faded; | 
No longer your pure rural worshipper now; 
In the haunts your continual presence per- 
vaded, 
Ye shrink from the signet of care on my brow. 


84 BRYANT’S POEMS 


In the old mossy groves on the breast of the 
mountain, 
In deep lonely glens where the waters com- 
plain, 
By the shade of the rock, by the gush of the 
fountain, 
I seek your loved footsteps, but seek them in 
vain, 


Oh, leave not, forlorn and forever forsaken, 
Your pupil and victim, to life and its tears! 

But sometimes return, and in mercy awaken 
The glories ye showed to his earlier years. 


MUTATION 
(A SONNET) 


They talk of short-lived pleasure—be it so— 
Pain dies as quickly: stern, hard-featured pain 
Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go. 

The fiercest agonies have shortest reign; 
And after dreams of horror, comes again 
The welcome morning with its rays of peace. 

Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain, 
Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease: 
Remorse is virtue’s root; its fair increase 
Are fruits of innocence and blessedness: 
Thus joy, o’erborne and bound, doth still 
release 
His young limbs from the chains that round 
him press. 
Weep not that the world changes—did it keep 
A stable changeless state, ’twere cause indeed 
to weep. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 85 


Pewee TO THE NORTH STAR | 


The sad and solemn night 
Has yet her multitude of cheerful fires; 
The glorious host of light 
Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires; 
All through her silent watches, gliding slow, 
Her constellations come, and climb the heav- 
ens, and go. 


Day, too, hath many a star 
To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they: 
Through the blue fields afar, 
Unseen, they follow in his flaming way: 
Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, 
Tells what aradiant troop arose and set with him. 


And thou dost see them rise, 
Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set. 
Alone, in thy cold skies, 
Thou keep’st thy old unmoving station yet, 
Nor join’st the dances of that glittering train, 
Nor dipp’st thy virgin orb in the blue western 
main. 


There, at morn’s rosy birth, 
Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air, 
And eve, that round the earth 
Chases the day, beholds thee watching there; 
There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls 
The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven’s 
azure walls. 


86 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Alike, beneath thine eye, 
The deeds of darkness and of light are done; 
High toward the star-lit sky 
Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun, 
The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud— 
And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea 
and cloud. 


On thy unaltering blaze 
The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost, 
Fixes his steady gaze, 
And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast; 
And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, 
Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their 
footsteps right. 


And, therefore, bards of old, 
Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood, 
Did in thy beams behold 
A beauteous type of that unchanging good, 
That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray 
The voyager of time should shape his heedful 
way. 


THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER 


Wild was the day; the wintry sea 
Moaned sadly on New England’s strand, 
When first, the thoughtful and the free, 
Our fathers trod the desert land. 


They little thought how pure a light, 
With years, should gather round that day; 
How love should keep their memories bright, 
How wide a realm their sons should sway. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 87 


Green are their bays; but greener still 
Shall round their spreading fame _ be 
wreathed, 
And regions, now untrod, shall thrill 
With reverence, when their names are 
breathed. 


Till where the sun, with softer fires, 
Looks on the vast Pacific’s sleep, 
The children of the pilgrim sires 
This hallowed day like us shall keep. 





HYMN OF THE WALDENSES 


Hear, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flock 

Cry to thee, from the desert and the rock; 

While those, who seek toslay thy children, hold 

Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold; 

And the broad goodly lands, with pleasant airs 

That nurse the grape and wave the grain, are 
theirs. 


Yet better were this mountain wilderness. 
And this wild life of danger and distress— 
Watchings by night and perilous flight by day, 
And meetings in the depths of earth to pray, 
Better, far better, than to kneel with them, 
And pay the impious rite thy laws condemn. 


Thou, Lord, dost hold the thunder; the firm land 
Tosses in billows when it feels thy hand; 
Thou dashest nation against nation, then 
Stillest the angry world to peace again. 

Oh, touch their stony hearts who hunt thy sons— 
The murderers of our wives and little ones. 


88 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Yet, mighty God, yet shall thy frown look forth 
Unveiled, and terribly shall shake the earth. 
Then the foul power of priestly sin and all 

Its long-upheld idolatries shall fall. 

Thou shalt raise up the trampled and oppressed, 
And thy delivered saints shall dwell in rest. 


SONG OF THE STARS 


When the radiant morn of creation broke, 

And the world in the smile of God awoke, 

And the empty realms of darkness and death 

Were moved through their depths by his 
mighty breath, 

And orbs of beauty and spheres of flame 

From the void abyss by myriads canie,— 

In the joy of youth as they darted away, 

Through the widening wastes of space to play, 

Their silver voices in chorus rung, 

And this was the song the bright ones sung. 


‘“‘Away, away, through the wide, wide sky,— 
The fair blue fields that before us lie,— 

Each sun, with the worlds that round him roll, 
Each planet, poised on her turning pole; 

With her isles of green and her clouds of white, 
And her waters that lie like fluid hight. 


‘*For the source of glory uncovers his face, 
And the brightness o’erflows unbounded space 
And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides 
In our ruddy air and our blooming sides: 

Lo, yonder the living splendors play; 

Away, on our joyous path, away! 


BRYANT’S POEMS 89 


**Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, 

In the infinite azure, star after star, 

How they brighten and bloom as they Byitay 
pass! 

How the verdure runs o’er each rolling mass! 

And the path of the gentle winds is seen, 

Where the small waves dance, and the young 
woods lean. 


**And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, 

How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower; 

And the morn and even, with their pomp of 
hues, 

Shift o'er the bright planets and shed their 
dews; 

And ’twixt them both, o’er the teeming ground, 

With their shadowy cone the night goes round! 


*““Away, away! in our blossoming bowers, 

In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours, 

In the seas and fountains that shine with morn, 

See, Love is brooding, and Life is born 

And breathing myriads are breaking from 
night, 

To rejoice like us, in motion and light. 


‘*Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres, 
To weave the dance that measures the years, 
Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent, 

To the farthest wall of the firmament, — 

The boundless visible smile of Him, 

To the veil of whose brow your lamps are dim.”’ 


90 BRYANT’S POEMS 


“NO MAN KNOWETH HIS 
SEPULCHRE.”’ 


When he, who, from the scourge of wrong, 
Aroused the Hebrew tribes to fly, 

Saw the fair region, promised long, 
And bowed him on the hills to die; 


God made his grave, to men unknown, 
Where Moab’s rocks a vale infold, 
And laid the aged seer alone 
To slumber while the world grows old. 


Thus still, whene’er the good and just 
Close the dim eye on life and pain, 

Heaven watches o’er their sleeping dust, 
Till the pure spirit comes again. 


Though nameless, trampled, and forgot, 
His servant’s humble ashes lie, 

Yet God has marked and sealed the spot, 
To call its inmates to the sky. 


—_—_—_——. 


*““BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN ® 


Oh, deem not they are blest alone 
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; 
The Power who pities man, has shown 
A blessing for the eyes that weep. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 91 


The light of smiles shall fill again 
The lids that overflow with tears; 

And weary hours of woe and pain 
Are promises of happier years. 


There is a day of sunny rest 
For every dark and troubled night; 
And grief may bide, an evening guest, 
But ioy shall come with early light. 


And thou, who, o’er thy friend’s low bier 
Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, 

Hope that a brighter, happier sphere, 
Will give him to thy arms again. 


Nor let the good man’s trust depart, 
Though life its common gifts deny, 

Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, 
And spurned of men, he goes to die. 


For God has marked each sorrowing day, 
And numbered every secret tear, 

And heaven’s long age of bliss shall pay 
For all his children suffer here. 


THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS 


The melancholy days are come, the saddest of 
the year, 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and mea- 
dows brown and sear. 

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the with- 
ered leaves lie dead; 


92 BRYANT’S POEMS 


They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the 
rabbit’s tread. 

The robin and the wren are flown, and from 
the shrubs the jay, 

And from the wood-top calls the crow, through 
all the gloomy day. 


Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, 
that lately sprang and stood 

In brighter light and softer air, a beauteous sis- 
terhood? 

Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle 
race of flowers 

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and 
good of ours. 

The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold 
November rain 

Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely 
ones again. 


The wind-flower and the violet, they perished 
long ago, 

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid 
the summer glow; 

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in 
the wood, 

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in 
autumn beauty stood, 

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, 
as falls the plague on men, 

And the brightness of their smile was gone, 
from upland, glade, and glen. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 93 


And now, when comes the calm mild day, as 
still such days will come, 

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their 
winter home; 

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 
though all the trees are still, 

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of 
the rill, 

The south wind searches for the flowers whose 
fragrance late he bore, 

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the 
stream no more. 


And then I think of one who in her youthful 
beauty died, 

The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded 
by my side; 

In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the 
forest cast the leaf, 

And we wept that one so lovely should have a 
life so brief: 

Yet not unmeetit was that one, like that young 
friend of ours, 

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with 
the flowers. 


TO A WATERFOWL 


Whither, ’midst falling dew, 
While glow the heavens with the last steps of 
day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
Thy solitary way? 


94 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Vainly the fowler’s eye 
Might mark thy distant flight todo thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 


Seek’st thou the plashy brink 

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 

Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
On the chafed ocean side? 


There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, 
The desert and illimitable air— 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 


All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
Though the dark night is near, 


And soon that toil shall end; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall 
bend, 
Soon, o’er thy sheltered nest. 


Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
And shall not soon depart. 


He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain 
flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone 
Will lead my steps aright. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 95 


THE BATTLE-FIELD 


Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 

And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encountered in the battle cloud. 


Ah! never shall the land forget 
How gushed the life-blood of her brave— 
Gushed, warm with hope and valor. yet, 
Upon the soil they fought to save. 


Now all is calm and fresh and still, 
Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 

And talk of children on the hill, 
And bell of wandering kine, are heard. 


No solemn host goes trailing by 
The black-mouthed gun and staggering 
wain; 
Men start not at the battle cry; 
Oh, be it never heard again! 


Soon rested those who fought—but thou, 
Who minglest in the harder strife 

For:truths which men receive not now, 
Thy warfare only ends with life. 


A friendless warfare! lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year; 

A wild and many-weaponed throng 
Hang on thy front and flank and rear. 


96 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 
And blench not at thy chosen lot; 
The timid good may stand aloof, 
The sage may frown—yet faint thou not! 


Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, 
The hissing, stinging bolt of scorn; 

For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 
The victory of endurance born. 


Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; 
The eternal years of God are hers; 

But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, 
And dies among his worshippers. 


Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, 

When those who helped thee flee in fear, 
Die full of hope and manly trust, 

Like those who fell in battle here. 


Another hand thy sword shall wield, 
Another hand the standard wave, 

Till from the trumpet’s mouth is pealed 
The blast of triumph o’er thy grave! 


THE WINDS 


Ye winds, ye unseen currents of the air, 
Softly ye played a few brief hours ago; 
Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye tossed the hair 
O’er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher 
glow; 
Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths 
of blue; 


BRYANT’S POEMS 97 


Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew; 
Before you the catalpa’s blossoms flew, 
Light blossoms, dropping on the grass lik 
snow. 


How are ye changed! Ye take the cataract’s 
sound; 
Ye take the whirlpool’s fury and its might; 
The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground ; 
The valley woods lie prone beneath you: 
flight. 
The clouds before you shoot like eagles past; 
The homes of men are rocking in your blast; 
Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast, 
Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight. 


The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain, 

To’scape your wrath; ye seize and dash them 
dead. 

Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain; 
The harvest field becomes a river’s bed; 

And torrents tumble from the hiils around, 

Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned, 

And wailing voices, ’midst the tempest’s sound, 
Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread. 


Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard 
A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray; 

Ye fling its floods around you, as a bird 
Flings o’er his shivering plumes the foun- 

tain’s spray. 

See! to the breaking mast the sailor clings; 

Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs, 

And take the mountain billow on your wings, 
And pile the wreck of navies round the bay. 
7 Bryant’s 


98 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Why rage ye thus?—no strife for liberty 
Has made you mad; no tyrant, strong through 
fear, 
Has chained your pinions till ye wrenched them 
irec: 

And rushed into the unmeasured atmosphere: 
For ve were born in freedom where ye blow; 
Free o’er the mighty deep to come and go; 
Earth’s solemn woods were yours, her wastes 

of snow, 

Her isles where summer blossoms all the 

year, 


O ye wild winds, a mightier Power than yours 
In chains upon the shore of Europe lies; 
The sceptered throng, whose fetters he en- 
dures, 
Watch his mute throes with terror in their 
eyes: 
And armed warriors all around him stand, 
And, as he struggles, tighten every band, 
And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand, 
To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise. 


Yet oh, when that wronged Spirit of our race 
Shall break, as soon he must, his long-worn 
chains, 
And leap in freedom from his prison-place, 
Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains, 
Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air, 
To waste the loveliness that time could spare, 
To fill the earth with woe, and blot her fair 
Unconscious breast with blood from human 
veins. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 98 


But may he like the Spring-time come abroad, 
Who crumbles winter’s gyves with gentle 
might, 
When in the genial breeze, the breath of God, 
Come spouting up the unsealed springs to 
light; 
Flowers start from their dark prisons at his 
feet, 
The woods, long dumb, await to hymnings 
sweet, 
And morn and eve, whose glimmering almost 
meet, 
Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient 
night. 


—_——_—. 


THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS 


Here we halt our march, and pitch our tent, 
On the rugged forest ground, 

And light our fire with the branches rent, 
By winds from the beeches round. 

Wild storms have torn this ancient wood, 
But a wilder is at hand, 

With hail of iron and rain of blood, 
To sweep and scath the land. 


How the bark waste rings with voices shrill, 
That startle the sleeping bird, 
To-morrow eve must the voice be still, 
And the step must fall unheard. 
The Briton lies by the blue Champlain, 
- In Ticonderoga’s towers, 
And ere the sun rise twice again, 
The towers and the lake are ours. 


100 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides, 
Where the fireflies light the brake; 

A ruddier juice the Briton hides, 
In his fortress by the lake. 

Build high the fire, till the panther leap 
From his lofty perch in fright, 

And we’ll strengthen our weary arms with 

sleep, 

For the deeds of to-morrow night. 





THE FUTURE LIFE 


How shall I know thee in the sphere which 
keeps 
The disembodied spirits of the dead, 
When all of thee that time could wither sleeps 
And perishes among the dust we tread? 


For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain 
If there I meet thy gentle presence not; 

Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again 
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. 


Will not thy own meek heart demand me there? 
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were 
given? 
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, 
Shall it be banished from thy tongue in 
heaven? 


In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing 
wind, 

In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, 

And larger movements of the unfettered mind, 

Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here? 


BRYANT’S POEMS 101 


The love that lived through all the stormy past, 
And meekly with my harsher nature bore, 

And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, 
Shall it expire with life, and be no more? 


A happier lot than mine, and larger light, 
Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy 
will 
In cheerful homage to the rule of right, 
And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. 


For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell, 
Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the 
scroll; 
And wrath hath left its scar—that fire of hell 
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. 


Yet, though thou wear’st the glory of the sky, 
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, 
The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, 
Lovelier in heaven’s sweet climate, yet the 
same? 


Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, 
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this- 
The wisdom which is love—till I become 
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss? 





THE OLD MAN’S COUNSEL 


Among our hills and valleys, I have known 
Wise and grave men, who, while their diligent 
hands 
Tendered or gathered in the fruits of earth, 
Were reverent learners in the solemn school 
Of nature. Not in vain to them were sent 


102 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Seed-time and harvest, or the vernal shower 

That darkened the brown tilth, or snow that 
beat 

On the white winter hills. Each brought, in 
turn, 

Some truth, some lesson on the life of man, 

Or recognition of the Eternal mind 

Who veils his glory with the elements. 


One such I knew long since, a white-haired 
man, 

Pithy of speech, and merry when he would; 
A genial optimist, who daily drew 
From what he saw his quaint moralities. 
Kindly he held communion, though so old, 
With mea dreaming boy, and taught me much 
That books tell not, and I shall ne’er forget. 


Thesun of May was bright in middle heaven 

And steeped the sprouting forests, the green 
hills 

And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light. 

Upon the apple-tree, where rosy buds 

Stood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom, 

The robin warbled forth his full clear note 

For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods, 

Whose young and half-transparent leaves scarce 
cast 

A shade, gay circles of anemones 

Danced on their stalks; the shadbush, white 
with flowers, 

Brightened the glens, the new-leaved butter- 
nut 

And quivering poplar to the roving breeze 


SRYANT’S POEMS 103 


Gave a balsamic fragrance. In the fields 

I saw the pulses of the gentle wind 

On the young grass. My heart was touched 
with joy 

At so much beauty, flushing every hour 

Into a fuller beauty; but my friend, 

The thoughtful ancient, standing at my side, 

Gazed on it mildly sad.. I asked him why. 


‘“Well may’st thou join in gladness,’’ he 
replied, 
**With the glad earth, her springing plants and 
flowers, 
And this soft wind, the herald of the green 
Luxuriant summer. Thou art young like them, 
And well may’st thou rejoice. But while the 
flight Mop 
Of seasons fills and knits thy spreading frame, 
It withers mine, and thins my hair, and dims 
These eyes, whose fading light shall soon be 
quenched 
In utter darkness. Hearest thou that bird?’’ 


I listened, and from ’midst the depth of woods 
Heard the love-signal of the grouse, that wears 
A sable ruff around his mottled neck; 
Partridge they call him by our northern 

streams, 
And pheasant by the Delaware. He beat 
’Gainst his barred sides his speckled wings, and 
made 
A sound like distant thunder; slow the strokes 
At first, then faster and faster, till at iength 
They passed into a murmur and were still. 


304 BRYANT’S POEMS 


‘*There hast thou,’’ said my friend, ‘‘a fitting 

type 

Of human life. ’Tis an old truth, I know, 

But images like these revive the power 

Of long familiar truths. Slow pass our days ~ 

In childhood, and the hours of light are 
long 

Betwixt the morn and eve; with swifter lapse 

They glide in manhood, and in age they fly; 

Till days and seasons flit before the mind 

As flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm, 

seen rather than distinguished. Ah! I seem 

As if I sat within a helpless bark, 

By swiftly running waters hurried on 

To shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banks 

Grove after grove, rock after frowning rock, 

Bare sands and pleasant homes, and flowery 
nooks, 

And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear 

Each after each, but the devoted skiff 

Darts by so swiftly that their images 

Dwell not upon the mind, or only dwell 

In dim confusion; faster yet I sweep 

By other banks and the great gulf is near. 


‘Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are 
long, 

And this fair change of seasons passes slow, 
Gather and treasure up the good they yield— 
All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts 
And kind affections, reverence for thy God 
And for thy brethren; so when thou shalt come 
Intothese barren years, thou may’st not bring 
A mind unfurnished and a withered heart.”’ 


BRYANT’S POEMS 1U5 


Long since that white-haired ancient slept— 
but still, 
When the red flower-buds crowd the orchard 
bough, 
And the ruffed grouse is drumming far within 
The woods, his venerable form again 
Is at my side, his voice is in my ear. 





AN EVENING REVERIE 
(FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM) 


The summer day is closed—the sun is set: 

Well they have done their office, those bright 
hours, 

The latest of whose train goes softly out 

In the red West. The green blade of the 
ground 

Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the 
young twig 

Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun; 

Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown 

And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil, 

From bursting cells, and in their graves await 

Their resurrection. Insects from the pools 

Have filled the air awhile with humming wings, 

That now are still forever; painted moths 

Have wandered the blue sky, and died again; 

The mother-bird hath broken, for her brood, 

Their prison shell, or shoved them from the 
nest, 

Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright 
alcoves, 

In woodland cottages with barky walls, 


106 BRYANT’S POEMS 


In noisome cells of the tumultuous town, 

Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born 
babe. 

Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore 

Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways 

Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out 

And filled, and closed. This day hath parted 
friends 

That ne’er before were parted; it hath knit 

New friendships; it hath seen the maiden plight 

Her faith, and trust her peace to him who 
long 

Had wooed; and it hath heard, from lips which 
late 

Were eloquent of love, the first harsh word, 

That told the wedded one her peace was flown. 

Fareweiltothe sweet sunshine! One glad day 

Is added now to Childhood’s merry days, 

And one calm day to those of quiet Age. 

Still the fleet hours run on; and as I lean, 

Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit, 

By those who watch the dead, and those who 
twine 

Flowers for the bride. The mother from the 
eyes 

Of her sick infant shades the painful light, 

And sadly listens to his quick-drawn breath. 


Oh thou great Movement of the Universe, 
Or Change, or Flight of Time—for ye are one! 
That bearest, silently, this visible scene 
Into night’s shadow and the streaming rays 
Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me? 

I feel the mighty current sweep me on, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 107 


Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar 

The courses of the stars; the very hour 

He knows when they shall darken or grow 
bright; 

Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of Death 

Come unforewarned. Who next, of those I love, 

Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall 

From virtue? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife 

With friends, or shame and general scorn of 
men— 

Which who can bear?—or the fierce rank of 
pain, 

Lie they within my path? Or shall the years 

Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace, 

Into the stilly twilight of my age? 

Or do the portals of another life 

Even now, while lam glorying in my strength, 

Impend around me? Oh! beyond that bourne, 

In the vast cycle of being’ which begins 

At that dread threshold, with what fairer forms 

Shall the great law of change and progress 
clothe 

Its workings? Gently—so have good men 
taught— 

Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide 

Into the new; the eternal flow of things, 

Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, 

Shall journey onward in perpetual peace. 


108 BRYANT’S POEMS 


THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM 


Here are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled 


pines, 

That stream with gray-green mosses; here the 
ground 

Was never trenched by spade, and flowers 
spring up 


Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet 

To linger here, among the flittering birds, 

And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and 
winds 

That shake the leaves, and scatter as they pass, 

A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set 

With pale blue berries. In these peaceful 
shades— 

Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old— 

My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, 

Back to the earliest days of liberty. 

Oh Freedom! thou art not, as poets dream, 
A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, 
And wavy tresses gushing from the cap 
With which the Roman master crowned his 

slave 
When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, 
Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed hand 
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy 
brow, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 109. 


Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred 

With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs 

Are strong with struggling. Power at thee 
has launched 

His bolts, and with his lightning's smitten thee; 

They could not quench the life thou hast from 
heaven. 

Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep, 

And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, 

Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems 
thee bound, 

The links are shivered, and the prison walls 

Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth, 

As springs the flame above a burning pile, 

And shoutest to the nations, who return 

Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. 


Thy birthright was not given by human 
hands; 
Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant 
fields, 
While yet our race was few, thou sat’st with him, 
To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, 
And teach the reed to utter simple airs. 
Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, 
Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, 
His only foes; and thou with him didst draw 
The earliest furrows on the mountain side, 
soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself, ' 
Thy enemy, although of reverend look, 
Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, 
Is later born than thou; and as he meets 
The grave defiance of thine elder eye, 
The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. 


A10 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of 

years, . 

But he shall fade into a feebler age; 

Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares, 

And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap 

His withered hands, and from their ambush 
call 

His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send 

Quaint maskers, forms of fair and gallant mien, 

Tocatch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words 

To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by 
stealth, 

Twine around thee threads of steel, light thread 
on thread, 

That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms 

With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh! not 
yet 

May’st thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by 

Thy sword; nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids 

In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps, 

And thou must watch and combat till the day 

Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst 
thou rest 

Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men, 

These old and friendly solitudes invite 

Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees 

Were young upon the unviolated earth, 

And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, 

Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. 


IbRY ANT’ S°POEMS Et 


A HYMN OF THE SEA 


The sea is mighty, but a mightier sways 

His restless billows. ‘Thou whose hands have 
scooped 

His boundless gulfs and built his shore, thy 
breath, 

That moved in the beginning o’er his face, 

Moves o’er it evermore. The obedient waves 

To its strong motion roll, and rise and fall. 

Still from that realm of rain thy cloud goes up, 

As at the first, to water the great earth, | 

And keep her valleys green. A hundred realms 

Watch its broad shadow warping on the wind, 

And in the dropping shower, with gladness hear 

Thy promise of the harvest. I look forth 

Over the boundless blue, where joyously 

The bright crests of innumerable waves 

Glance to the sun at once, as when the hands 

Of a great multitude are upward flung 

In acclamation. I behold the ships 

Gliding from cape to cape, from isle to isle, 

Or stemming toward far lands, or hastening 
home 

From the Old World. It isthy friendly breeze 

That bears them, with the riches of the land, 

And treasure of dear lives, till, in the port, 

The shouting seaman climbs and furls the 
sail. 


112 BRYANT’S POEMS | 


But who shall bide thy tempest, who shall 

face 

The blast that wakes the fury of the sea? 

Oh God! thy justice makes the world turn pale, 

When on the armed fleet, that royally 

Bears down the surges, carrying war, to smite 

Some city, or invade soine thoughtless realm, 

Descends the fierce tornado. The vast hulks 

Are whirled like chaff upon the waves; the sails 

Fly, rent like webs of gossamer; the masts 

Are snapped asunder; downward from the 
decks, 

Downward are slung, into the fathomless gulf, 

Their cruel engines; and their hosts, arrayed 

In trappings of the battle-field, are whelmed 

By whirlpools, or dashed dead upon the rocks. 

Then stand the nations still with awe, and 
pause, 

A moment, from the bloody work of war. 


These restless surges eat away the shores 
Of earth’s old continents; the fertile plain 
Welters in shallows, headlands crumble down, 
And the tide drifts the sea-sand in the streets 
Of the drowned city. Thou, meanwhile, afar 
In the green chambers of the middle sea, 
Where broadest spread the waters and the line 
Sinks deepest, while no eye beholds thy work, 
Creator! thou dost teach the coral worm 
To lay his mighty reefs. From age to age, 
He builds beneath the waters, till, at last, 

His bulwarks overtop the brine, and check 
The long wave rolling from the southern pole 
To break’ upon Japan... Thou bid’st the fires, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 113 


That smoulder under ocean, heave on high 

The new-made mountains, and uplift their 
peaks, 

A place of refuge for the storm-driven bird. 

The birds and wafting billows plant the rifts 

With herb and tree; sweet fountains gush; 
sweet airs 

Ripple the living lakes that, fringed with 
flowers, 

Are gathered in the hollows. Thou dost look 

-On thy creation and pronounce it good. 

Its valleys, glorious with their summer green, 

Praise thee in silent beauty, and its woods, 

Swept by the murmuring winds of ocean, join 

The murmuring shores in a perpetual hymn. 





THE STREAM OF LIFE 


Oh silvery streamlet of the fields, 
That flowest full and free! 

For thee the rains of spring return, 
The summer dews for thee; 

And when thy latest blossoms die 
In autumn ’s chilly showers, 

The winter fountains gush for thee, 
Till May brings back the flowers. 


Oh Stream of Life! the violet springs 
But once beside thy bed; 

But one brief summer, on thy path, 
The dews of heaven are shed. 

Thy parent fountains shrink away, 
And close their crystal veins, 

And where thy glittering current flowed 
The dust alone remains. 

8 Bryant’s ° 


114 BRYANT’S POEMS 


MIDSUMMER 
(A SONNET) 


A power is on the earth and in the air, 
From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, 
And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade, 

From the hot stream and from the fiery glare. 

Look forth upon the earth—her thousand plants 
Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize 
Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze; 

The herd beside the shaded fountain pants; 

For life is driven from all the landscape brown; 
The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den, 
The trout floats deadin the hot stream, and 

men 

Drop by the sun-stroke in the populace town: 
As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent 
Its deadly breath into the firmament. 





GREEN RIVER 


When breezes are soft and skies are fair, 
I steal an hour from study and care, 
And hie me away to the woodland scene, 
Where wanders the stream with waters of 

green. 

As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink 
Had given their stain to the wave they drink; 
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, 
Have named the stream from its own fair hue. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 115 


Yet pure its waters—its shallows are bright 
With coloured pebbles and sparkles of light, 
And clear the depths where its eddies play, 
And dimples deepen and whirl away, 

And the plane-tree’s speckled arms o’ershoot 

The swifter current that mines its root, 

Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk 
the hill, 

The quivering glimmer of sun and rill 

With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, 

Like the ray that streams from the diamond 
stone. 

Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, 

With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees: 
hum; 

The flowers of summer are fairest there, 

And freshest the breath of the summer air; 

And sweetest the golden autumn day 

In silence and sunshine glides away. 


Yet fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide, 
Beautiful stream! by the village side; 
But windest away from haunts of men, 
To quiet valley and shaded glen; 
And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, 
Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still. 
Lonely—save when, by thy rippling tides, 
From thicket to thicket the angler glides; 
Or the simpler comes with basket and book, 
For herbs of power on thy banks to look; 
Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me, 
To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. 
Still—save the chirp of birds that feed 
On the river cherry and seedy reed, 


116 BRYANT’S POEMS 


And thy own wild music gushing out 
With mellow murmur and fairy shout, 
From dawn to the blush of another day, 
Like traveller singing along his way. 


That fairy music I never hear, 
Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, 
And mark them winding away from sight, 
Darkened with shade or flashing with light, 
While o’er them the vine to its thicket clings, 
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, 
But I wish that fate had left me free 
To wander these quiet haunts with thee; 
Till the eating cares of earth should depart, 
And the peace of the scene passinto my heart; 
And I envy thy stream, as it glides along, 
Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. 


Though forced to drudge for the dregs of 

men, 

And scrawl strange words with the barbarous 
pen, 

And mingle among the jostling crowd, 

Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud— 

I often come to this quiet place, 

To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, 

And gaze upon thee in silent dream, 

For in thy lonely and lovely stream 

An image of that calm life appears 

that won my heart in my greener years. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 117 


A WINTER PIECE 


The time has been that these wild solitudes, 
Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me 
Oftener than now; and when the ills of life 
Had chafed my spirit—when the unsteady 
pulse 

Beat with strange flutterings—I would wander 
forth 

And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path 

Was tomeasa friend. The swelling hills, 

The quiet dells retiring far between, 

With gentle invitation to explore 

Their windings, were a calm society 

That talked with me and soothed me. Then 
the chant 

Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress 

Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget 

The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began 

To gather simples by the fountain’s brink, 

And lose myself in day-dreams. WhileI stood 

In nature’s loneliness, I was with one 

With whom I early grew familiar, one 

Who never had a frown for me, whose voice 

Never rebuked me for the hours I stole 

From cares I loved not, but of which the world 

Deems highest, to converse with her. When 
shrieked 

The bleak November winds, and smote the 
woods, 


118 BRYANT’S POEMS 


And the brown fields were herbless, and the 
shades, 

‘That met above the merry rivulet, 

Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still, — 
they seemed iets 

Like old companions in adversity. 

Still there was beauty in my walks; the brook, 

Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay 

As with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar, 

The village with its spires, the path of streams, 

And dim receding valleys, hid before 

By interposing trees, lay visible 

Through the bare grove, and my familiar 
haunts 

Seemed new to me. Nor was 1 slow to come 

Among them, when the clouds, from their still 
skirts, 

Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow, 

And all was white. The pure keen air abroad, 

Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard 

Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee, 

Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept 

Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds, 

That lay along the boughs, instinct with life, 

Patient and waiting the soft breath of Spring, 

Feared not the piercing spirit of the North. 

Thesnow-bird twittered on the beechen bough, 

And ’neath the hemlock, whose thick branches 
bent 

Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry 

A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves, 

The partridge found a shelter. Through the 
snow 

The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track 


BRYANT’S POEMS 119 


Of fox, and the racoon’s broad path, were 
there, 

Crossing each other. From his hollow tree, 

The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts 

Just fallen, that asked the winter coldand sway 

Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold. 


But Winter has yet brighter scenes,—he 

boasts 

Splendours beyond what gorgeous Summer 
knows; } 

Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods 

All flushed with many hues. Come when the 
rains 

Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees 
with ice; 

While the slant sun of February pours 

Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach! 

The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps, 

And the broad arching portals of the grove 

Welcome thy entering. Look! the massy trunks 

Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray, 

Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven, 

Is studded with its trembling water-drops, 

That stream with rainbow radiance as they 
move. 

Butround the parent stem the long low boughs 

Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbours hide 

The glassy floor, Oh! you might deem the 
spot 

The spacious cavern of some virgin mine, 

Deep in the womb of earth—where the gems 
grow, 

And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud 


120 BRYANT'S POEMS 


With amethyst and topaz—and the place 

Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam 

That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall 

Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night, 

And fades not in the glory of the sun ;— 

Where crystal columns send forth slender 
shafts 

And crossing arches; and fantastic aisles 

Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost 

Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye,— 

Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault; 

There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud 

Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams 

Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose, 

And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air, 

And all the sluices sealed. All, all is light; 

Light without shade. But all shall pass away 

With the next sun. From numberless vast 
trunks, 

Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound 

Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve 

Shall close o’er the brown woodsas it was wont. 


And it is pleasant, when the noisy streams 
Are just set free, and milder suns melt off 
The plashy snow, save only the firm drift 
In the deep glen or the close shade of pines,— 
‘Tis pleasant to behold the wreaths of smoke 
Roll up among the maples of the hill, 

Where theshrill sound of youthful voices wakes 

The shriller echo, as the clear pure lymph, 

That from the wounded trees, in twinkling 
drops, 

Falls, mid the golden brightness of the morn, 


BRYANT’S POEMS . 121 


{s gathered in with brimming pails, and oft, 
Wielded by sturdy hands, the stroke of axe 
Makes the woods ring. Along the quiet air, 
Come and float calmly off the soft light clouds, 
Such as you see in summer, and the winds 
Scarce stirthe branches. Lodgedinsunny cleft, 
Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone 
The little windflower, whose just opened eye 
Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at— 
Startling the loiterer in the naked groves 
With unexpected beauty, for the time 
Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar. 
And ere it comes, the encountering winds shall 
oft 
Muster their wrath again, and rapid clouds 
Shade heaven, and bounding on the frozen 
earth 
Shall fall their volleyed stores rounded like hail, 
And white like snow, and the loud North again 
Shall buffet the vexed forest in his rage. 





HYMN TO DEATH 


Oh! could I hope the wise and pure in heart 
Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem 
My voice unworthy of the theme it tries, — 

1 would take up the hymn to Death, and say 

To the grim power, The world hath slandered 
thee 

And mocked thee. On thy dim and shadowy 
brow 

They place an iron crown, and call thee king 

Of terrors, and the spoiler of the world, 


122 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Deadly assassin, that strik’st down the fair, 

The loved, the good—that breathest on the 
lights 

Of virtue set along the vale of life, 

And they go out in darkness. I am come, 

Not with reproaches, not withcries and prayers, 

Such as have stormed thy stern, insensible ear 

From the beginning. I am come to speak 

Thy praises. True it is, that 1 have wept 

‘Thy conquests, and may weep them yet again: 

And thou from some I love wilt take a life 

Dear tome asmy own. Yet while the spell 

Is on my spirit, and I taik with thee 

In sight of all thy trophies, face to face, 

Meet is it that my voice should utter forth 

Thy nobler triumphs; I will teach the world 

To thank thee.—Who are thine accusers?— 
Who? 

The living!—they who never felt thy power, » 

And know thee not. The curses of the wretch 

Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy 
hand | 

Is on him, and the hour he dreads is come, 

Are writ among thy praises. But the good— 

Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed to 
peace, 

Upbraid the gentle violence that took off 

His fetters, and unbarred his prison cell? 


Raise then the hymn to death. Detiverer! 
God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed 
Anu ctush the oppressor. When the armed 

chief, 
The conqueror of nations, walks the world, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 123 


And it is changed beneath his feet, and all 
Its kingdoms melt into one mighty realm— 
Thou, while his head is loftiest and his heart 
Blasphemes, imagining his own right hand 
Almighty, thou dost set thy sudden grasp 
Upon him, and the links of that strong chain 
That bound mankind are crumbled; thou dost 
break 
Sceptre and crown, and beat his throne to dust. 
Then the earth shouts with gladness, and her 
tribes 
Gather within their ancient bounds again. 
Else had the mighty of the olden time, 
Nimrod, Sesostris, or the youth who feigned 
His birth from Libyan Ammon, smitten yet 
The nations with a rod of iron, and driven 
Their chariot o’er our necks. Thou dost 
avenge, 
In thy good time, the wrongs of those who know 
No other friend. Nor dost thou interpose 
Only to lay the sufferer asleep, 
Where he who made him wretched troubles not 
His rest—thou dost strike down his tyrant too. 
Oh, there is joy when hands that held the 
scourge 
Drop lifeless, and the pitiless heart is cold 
Thou too dost purge from earth its horrible 
And old idolatries ;—from the proud fanes 
Each to his grave their priests go out, till none 
Is left to teach their worship; then the fires 
Of sacrifice are chilled, and the green moss 
O’ercreeps their altars; the fallen images 
Cumber the weedy courts, and for loud hymns 
Chanted by kneeling multitudes, the wind 


124 BRYANT’S .POEMS 


Shrieks in the solitary aisles. When he ; 
Who gives his life to guilt, and laughs at all 
The laws that God or man has made, and round 
Hedges his seat with power, and shines in 
wealth,— | 
Lifts up his atheist front to scoff at Heaven, 
And celebrates his shame in open day, 
Thou, in the pride of all his crimes, cutt’st off 
The horrible example. Touched by thine, 
The extortioner’s hard hand foregoes the gold 
Wrung froin the .o’er-worn poor. The perjurer, 
Whose tongue was lithe, e’en now, and voluble 
Against his neighbour’s life, and he who 
laughed 
And leaped for joy to see a spotless fame 
Blasted before his own foul calumnies, 
Are smit with deadly silence. He, who sold 
His conscience to preserve a worthless life, 
Even while he hugs himself on his escape, 
Trembles, as, doubly terrible, at length, 
Thy steps o’ertake him, and there is no time 
For parley—nor will bribes unclench thy grasp. 
Oft, too, dost thou reform thy victim, long 
Ere his last hour. And when the reveller, 
Mad in the chase of pleasure, stretches on, 
And strains each nerve, and clears the path of 
Hite 
Like wind, thou point’st him to the dreadful 
goal, 
And shak'st thy hour-glass in his reeling-eye, 
Ani check’st him in mid course. Thy skele- ~ 
ton hand 
Shows to the faint of spirit the right path, 
And he is warned, and fears to step aside. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 125 


Thou sett’st between the ruffian and his crime 

Thy ghastly countenance, and his slack hand 

Drops the drawn knife. But, oh, most fearfully 

Dost thou show forth Heaven’s justice, when 
thy shafts 

Drink up the ebbing spirit—then the hard 

Of heart and violent of hand restores 

The treasure to the friendless wretch he 
wronged. 

Then from the writhing bosom thou dost pluck 

The guilty secret; lips, for ages sealed, 

Are faithless to the dreadful trust at length, 

And give it up; the felon’s latest breath 

Absolves the innocent man who bears his 
crime; 

The slanderer, horror-smitten, and in tears, 

Recalls the deadly obloquy he forged 

To work his brother’s ruin. Thou dost make 

Thy penitent victim utter to the air 

The dark conspiracy that strikes at life, 

And aims to whelm the laws; ere yet the hour 

Is come, and the dread sign of murder given. 


Thus, from the first of time, hast thou been 

found 

On virtue’s side! the wicked, but for thee, 

Had been too strong for the good; the great of 
earth 

Had crushed the weak for ever. Schooled in 
cuile 

For ages, while each passing year had brought 

Its baneful lesson, they had filled the world 

With their abominations; while its tribes, 

Trodden to earth, imbruted, and despoiled, 


126 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Had knelt to them in worship; sacrifice 

Had smoked on many an altar, temple roofs 

Had echoed with the blasphemous prayer and 
hymn: 

But thou, the great reformer of the world, 

Tak’st off the sons of violence and fraud 

In their green pupilage, their lore half learned— 

Ere guilt had quite o’errun the simple heart 

God gave them at their birth, and blotted out 

Hisimage. Thou dost mark them flushed with 
hope, 

As on the threshold of their vast designs 

Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik’st them 
down. 


* * * XK * 


Alas! I little thought that the stern power 
Whose fearful praise I sung, would try me thus 
Before the strain was ended. It must cease— 
For he is in his grave who taught my youth 
The art of verse, and in the bud of life 
Offered me to the muses. Oh, cut off 
Untimely! when thy reason in its strength, 
Ripened by years of toil and studious search, 
And watch of Nature’s silent lessons, taught 
Thy hand to practice best the lenient art, 

To which thou gavest thy laborious days, 

And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the 
earth 

Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes 

And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed 
thy skill 

Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and 
turned pale 


BRYANT’S POEMS 127 


When thor wert sone. This faltering verse, 
which thou 

Shalt not, as wont, o’erlook, is all I have 

To offer at thy grave—this—and the hope 

To copy thy example, and to leave 

A name of which the wretched shall not think 

As of an enemy’s, whom they forgive 

As allforgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou 

Whose early guidance trained my infant steps— 

Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep 

Of death is over, and a happier life 

Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust. 


Now thou art not—and yet the men whose 

guilt 

Has wearied Heaven for vengeance—he who 
bears 

False witness—he who takes the orphan’s 
bread, 

And robs the widow—he who spreads abroad 

Polluted hands of mockery of prayer, 

Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look 

On what is written, yet I blot not out 

The desultory numbers—let them stand, 

The record of an idle revery. 


LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY 


I stand upon my native hills again, 
Broad, round, and green, that in the summer 
sky | 
With garniture of waving grass and grain, 
Orchards, and beechen forests, basking lie, 


128 RRYANT’S POEMS 


While deep the sunless glens are scooped be- 
tween, 

Where brawl o’er shallow beds the streams 
unseen, 


A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near, 
And ever restless feet of one, who, now, 
Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year; 
There plays a gladness o’er her fair young 
brow, 
As breaks the varied scene upon her sight, 
Upheaved and spread in verdure and in light. 


For I have taught her, with delighted eye, 

To gaze upon the mountains,—to behold, 
With deep affection, the pure ample sky, 

And clouds along its blue abysses rolled,— 
To love the song of waters, and to hear 
The melody of winds with charmed ear. 


Here, I have ’scaped the city’s stifling heat, 
Its horrid sounds, and its polluted air; 

And, where the season’s milder fervours beat, 
And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear 

The song of bird, and sound of running stream, 

Am come awhile to wander and to dream. 


Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun! thou canst not 
wake, 
In this pure air the plague that walks unseen. 
The maize leaf and the maple bough but take, 
From thy strong heats, a deeper, glossier 
green. 
The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray 
Sweeps the blue streams of pestilence away. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 129 


The mountain wind! most spiritual thing of ail 
The wide earth knows; when, in the sultry 
time, 
He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall, 
He seems the breath of a celestial clime! 
Asif from heaven’s wide-open gates did flow 
Health and refreshment on the world below. 





Peeve cre: MOUNTAIN’S DISTANT 
HEAD” 


Upon the mountain’s distant head, 
With trackless snows for ever white, 

Where all is still, and cold, and dead, 
Late shines the day’s departing light. 


But far below those icy rocks, 
The vales, in summer bloom arrayed, 
Woods full of birds, and fields of flocks, 
Are dim with mist and dark with shade. 


’Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts, 
And eyes where generous meanings burn, 
Earliest the light of life departs, 
But lingers with the cold and stern. 





THE.JOURNEY OF LIFE 


Beneath the waning moon I walk at night, 
And muse on human life—for all around 
Are dim uncertain shapes that cheat the sight, 
And pitfalls lurk in shade along the ground, 
And broken gleamsof brightness here and there 
Glance through, and leave unwarmed the death- 
like air. 
9 Bryant’s 


130 BRYANT’S POEMS 


The trampled earth returns a sound of fear— 
A hollow sound, as if I walked on tombs; 
And lights, that tell of cheerful homes, appear 

Far off, and die like hope amid the glooms. 
A mournful wind across the landscape flies, 
And the wide atmosphere is fuil of sighs. 


And I, with faltering footsteps, journey on, 
Watching the stars that roll the hours away, 
Till the faint light that guides me now is gone, 
And, like another life, the glorious day 
Shall open o’er me from the empyreal height, 
Witi warmth, and certainty, and boundless 
light, 


——___—___—, 


LOVE AND FOLL® 
(FROM LA FONTAINE) 


Love’s worshippers alone can know 
The thousand mysteries that are his; 

His blazing torch, his twanging bow, 
His blooming age are mysteries. 

A charming science—but the day 
Were all too short to con it o’er; 

So take of me this little lay, 
A sample of its boundless lore. 


As once, beneath the fragrant shade 
Of myrtles breathing heaven’s own air, 
The children, Love and Folly, played— 
A quarrel rose betwixt the pair. 
Love said the gods should do him right— 
But Folly vowed to do it then, 
And struck him, o’er the orbs of sight, 
So hard he never saw again. 


BRYANT’S POBMS |\) (| |) \a3h- 


His lovely mother’s grief was deep, 
She called for vengeance on the deed; 
A beauty does not vainly weep, 
Nor coldly does a mother plead. 
A shade came o’er the eternal bliss 
That fills the dwellers of the skies; 
Even stony-hearted Nemesis, 
And Rhadamanthus, wiped their eyes. 


**Behold,’’ she said, ‘‘this lovely boy,’’ 
While streamed afresh her graceful tears, 
‘‘Immortal, yet shut out from joy 
And sunshine, all his future years. 
The child can never take, you see, 
A single step without a staff— 
The harshest punishment would be 
Too lenient for the crime by half.’’ 


All said that Love had suffered wrong, 
And well that wrong should be repa 
Then weighed the public interest long, 
And long the party’s interest weighed. 
And thus decreed the court above— 
‘Since Love is blind from Folly’s blow, 
Let Folly be the guide of Love, 
Where’er the boy may choose to go.”’ 


d: 


ks 


132 BRYANT’S POEMS 


THE LOVE OF GOR 
(FROM THE PROVENCAL OF BERNARD. RASCAS) 


All things that are on earth shall wholly pass 

away, 

Except the love of God, which shall live and 
last for aye. 

The forms of men shall be as they had never 
been; 

The blasted groves shall lose their fresh and 
tender green; 

The birds of the thicket shall end their pleas- 
ant song, 

And the nightingale shall cease to chant the 
evening long. 

The kine of the pasture shall feel the dart that 
kills, 

And all the fair white flocks shall perish from 
the hills. 

The goat and antlered stag, the wolf and the 
fox, 

The wild boar of the wood, and the chamois of 
the rocks, 

And the strong and fearless bear, in the trod- 
den dust shall lie; 

And the dolphin of the sea, and the mighty 
whale, shall die. 

And realms shall be dissolved, and empires be 
no more, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 133 


And they shall bow to death, who ruled from 
shore to shore; 

And the great globe itself (sothe holy writings 
tell), 

With the rolling firmament, where the starry 
armies dwell, 

Shall melt with fervent heat—they shall all 
pass way, 

Except the love of God, which shall live and 
last for aye. 


EARTH 


A midnight black with clouds is in the sky; 

I seem to feel, upon my limbs, the weight 

Of its vast brooding shadow. Allin vain 

Turns the tired eye in search of form; no star 

Pierces the pitchy veil; no ruddy blaze, 

From dwellings lighted by the cheerful hearth, 

Tinges the flowering summits of the grass. 

No sound of life is heard, no village hum, 

Nor measured tramp of footstep in the path, 

Nor rush of wing, while, on the breast of 
Earth, 

I lie and listen to her mighty voice: 

A voice of many tones—sent up from streams 

That wander through the gloom, from woods 
unseen, 

Swayed by the sweeping of the tides of air, 

From rocky chasms where darkness dwells all 
day, 

And hollows of the great invisible hills, 

And sands that edge the ocean, stretching far 

Into the night—a melancholy sound! 


134 ' | BRYANT’S POEMS 


O Earth! dost thou too sorrow for the past 
Like man thy offspring? Do 1 hear thee mourn 
Thy childhood’s unreturning hours, thy springs 
Gone with their genial airs and melodies, 

The gentle generations of thy flowers, 

And thy majestic groves of olden time, 

Perished with all their dwellers? Dost thou 
wail 

For that fair age of which the poets tell, 

Ere the rude winds grew keen with frost, or fire 

Fell with the rains, or spouted from the hills, 

To blast thy greenness, while the virgin night 

Was guiltless and salubrious as the day? 

Or haply dost thou grieve for those that die— 

For living things that trod thy paths awhile, 

The love of thee and heaven—and now they 
slee 

Mixed with the shapeless dust on which thy 
herds 

Trample and graze? 1 too must grieve with 
thee, 

O’er loved ones Jost. Their graves are faraway 

Upon thy mountains; yet, while I recline 

Alone, in darkness, on thy naked soil, 

The mighty nourisher and burial-place 

Of man, I feel that I embrace their dust. 


Ha! how the murmur deepens! I perceive 
And tremble at its dreadful import. Earth 
Uplifts a general cry for guilt and wrong, 
And heaven is listening. The forgotten graves 
Of the heart-broken utter forth their plaint. 
The dust of her who loved and was betrayed, 
And him who died neglected in his age; 


BRYANT’S POEMS 135 


The sepulchres of those who for mankind 

Laboured, and earned the recompense of scorn; 

Ashes of martyrs for the truth, and bones 

Of those who, in the strife for liberty, 

Were beaten down, their corses given to dogs, 

Their names to infamy, all find a voice. 

The nook in which the captive, overtoiled, 

Lay down to rest at last, and that which holds 

Childhood’s sweet blossoms, crushed by cruel 
hands, 

Send upaplaintivesound. From battle-fields. 

Where heroes madly drave and dashed thei 
hosts 

Against each other, rises up a noise, 

As if the armed multitudes of dead 

Stirredin their heavy slumber. Mournful tones 

Come from the green abysses of the sea— 

A story of the crimes the guilty sought 

To hide beneath its waves. The glens, the 
groves, 

Paths in the thicket, pools of running brook, 

And banks and depths of lake, and streets and 
lanes 

Of cities, now that living sounds are hushed, 

Murmur of guilty force and treachery. 


Here, where | rest, the vales of Italy 
Are round me, populous from early time, 
And field of the tremendous warfare waged 
“Twixt good and evil. Who, alas, shall dare 
Interpret to man’s ear the mingled voice 
That comes from her old dungeons yawnixs, 

now 

To the black air, her amphitheatres, 


136 ) | {BRYANT’S POEMS 


Where the dew gathers on the mouldering 
stones, 

And fanes of banished gods, and open tombs, 

And roofless palaces, and streets and hearths 

Of cities dug from their volcanic graves? 

I hear a sound of many languages, 

The utterance of nations now no more, 

Driven out by mightier, as the days of heaven 

Chase one another from the sky. The blood 

Of freemen shed by freemen, till strange lords 

Came in the hour of weakness, and made fast 

The yoke that yet is worn, cries out to Heaven. 


What then shall cleanse thy bosom, gentle 

Earth, 

From all its painful memories of guilt? 

The whelming flood, or the renewing fire, 

Or the slow change of time? that so, at last, © 

The horrid tale of perjury and strife, 

Murder and spoil, which men call history, 

May seem a fable, like the inventions told 

By poets of the gods of Greece. O thou, 

Who sittest far beyond the Atlantic deep, 

Among the sources of thy glorious streams, 

My native Land of Groves! a newer page 

.In the great record of the world is thine; 

Shall it be fairer? Fear, and friendly hope, 

And envy, watch the issue, while the lines, 

By which thou shalt be judged, are written 
down. 


> 


BRYANT’S POEMS 137 


§ 


~ 


CATTERSKILL FALLS 


Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps, 
From cliffs where the wood-flower clings; 
All summer he moistens his verdant steeps 
With the sweet light spray of the mountain 
springs; 
And he shakes the woods on the mountain side, 
When they drip with the rains of autumn-tide. 


But when, in the forest bare and old, 
The blast of December calls, 

He builds, in the starlight clear and cold, 
A palace of ice where his torrent falls, 

With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair, 

And pillars blue as the summer air. 


For whom are those glorious chambers wrought, 
In the cold and cloudless night? 

Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought 
In forms so lovely, and hues so bright? 

Hear what the gray-haired woodmen tell 

‘Of this wild stream and its rocky dell. 


’T was hither a youth of dreamy rood, 
A hundred winters ago, 
Had wandered over the mighty wood, 
When the panther’s track was fresh on the 
snow, 
And keen were the winds that came to stir 
The long dark boughs of the hemlock fir. 


138 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Too gentle of mien he seemed and fair, 
For achild of those rugged steeps; 
His home lay low in the valley where 
The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps; 
But he wore the hunter’s frock that day, 
And a slender gun on his shoulder lay. 


And here he paused, and against the trunk 
Of a tall gray linden leant, 

When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk 
From his path in the frosty firmament, 

And over the round dark edge of the hill 

A cold green light was quivering still. 


And the crescent moon, high over the green, 
From a sky of crimson shone, 

On that icy palace, whose towers were seen 
To sparkle as if with stars of their own; 

While the water fell with a hollow sound, 

’Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around. 


Is that a being of life, that moves 

Where the crystal battlements rise? 
A maiden watching the moon she loves, 

At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes? 
Was that a garment which seemed to gleam 
Betwixt the eye and the falling stream? 


"Tis only the torrent tumbling o’er, 
In the midst of those glassy walls, 
Gushing, and plunging, and beating the floor 
Of the rocky basin in which it falls. . 
"Tis only the torrent—but why that start? 
Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart? 


BRYANT’S POEMS 139 


He thinks no more of his home afar, 
Where his sire and sister wait. 
He heeds no longer how star after star 
Looks forth on the night as the hour grows 
late. 
He heeds not the snow-wreaths, lifted and cast 
From a thousand boughs, by the rising blast. 


His thoughts are alone of those who dwell 
In the halls of frost and snow, 
Who pass where the crystal domes upswell 
From the alabaster floors below, 
Where the frost-trees shoot with leaf and spray, 
And frost-gems scatter a silvery day. 


**And oh that those glorious haunts were mine!”’ 
He speaks, and throughout the glen 

Thin shadows swim in the faint moonshine, 
And take a ghastly likeness of men, 

As if the slain by the wintry storms 

Came forth to the air in their earthly forms. 


There pass the chasers of seal and whale, 
With their weapons quaint and grim, 
And bands of warriors in glittering mail, 
And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb. 
There are naked arms, with bow and spear, 
And furry gauntlets the carbine rear. 


There are mothers—and oh how sadly theireyes 
On their children’s white brows rest! 
There are youthful lovers—the maiden lies, 
In a seeming sleep, on the chosen breast; 
There are fair wan women with moonstruck air, 
The snow stars flecking their long loose hair, 


140 BRYANT’S POEMS 


They eye him not as they pass along, 
But his hair stands up with dread, 
When he feels that he moves with that phan- 
tom throng, 
Till those icy turrets are over his head, 
And the torrent’s roar as they enter seems 
Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams. 


The glittering threshold is scarcely passed, 
When there gathers and wraps him round 
A thick white twilight, sullen and vast, 
In which there is neither form nor sound; 
The phantoms, the glory, vanish all, 
With the dying voice of the waterfall. 


Slow passes the darkness of that trance, 
And the youth now faintly sees 
Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance 
On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees, 
And walls where the skins of beasts are hung, 
And rifles glitter on antlers strung. 


On acouch of shaggy skins he lies; 
As he strives to raise his head, 
Hard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes, 
Come round him and smooth his furry bed, 
And bid him rest, for the evening star 
Is scarcely set and the day is far. 


They had found at eve the dreaming one 
By the base of that icy steep, 
When over his stiffening limbs begun 
The deadly slumber of frost to creep, 
And they cherished the pale and breathless form, 
Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 141 


LIFE 


Oh Life! I breathe thee in the breeze, 
I feel thee bounding in my veins, 
I see thee in these stretching trees, 
These flowers, this still rock’s mossy stains. 


This stream of odors flowing by 

From clover-field and clumps of pine, 
This music, thrilling all the sky, 

From all the morning birds, are thine. 


Thou fill’st with joy this little one, 

That leaps and shouts beside me here, 
Where Isar’s clay-white rivulets run 

Through the dark woods like frighted deer. 


Ah! must thy mighty breath, that wakes 
Insect and bird, and flower and tree, 

From the low trodden dust, and makes 
Their daily gladness, pass from me— 


Pass, pulse by pulse, till o’er the ground 
These limbs, now strong, shall creep with 
pain, 
And this fair world of sight and sound 
Seem fading into night again? 


The things, oh Life! thou quickenest, all 
Strive upward toward the broad bright sky, 
Upward and outward, and they fall 
Back to earth’s bosom when they die. 


142 BRYANT’S POEMS 


All that have borne the touch of death, 
All that shall live, lie mingled there, 

Beneath that veil of bloom and breath, 
That living zone ’twixt earth and air. 


There lies my chamber dark and still, 
The atoms trampled by my feet, 
There wait, to take the place I fill 
In the sweet air and sunshine sweet. 


Well, I have had my turn, have been 
Raised from the darkness of the clod, 
And for a glorious moment seen 
The brightness of the skirts of God; 


And knew the light within my breast, 
Though wavering oftentimes and dim, 

The power, the will, that never rest, 
And cannot die, were all from him. 


Dear child! I know that thou wilt grieve 
To see me taken from thy love, 

Wilt seek my grave at Sabbath eve, 
And weep, and scatter flowers above, 


Thy little heart will soon be healed, 
And being shall be bliss, till thou 

To younger forms of life must yield 
The place thou fill’st with beauty now. 


When we descend to dust again, 
Where will the final dwelling be 

Of Thought and all its memories then, 
My love for thee, and thine for me? 


BRYANT’S POEMS 143 


THE FOUNTAIN 


Fountain, that springest on this grassy slope, 
Thy quick cool murmur mingles pleasantly, 
With the coul sound of breezes in the beech, 
Above me in the noontide. Thou dost wear 
No stain of thy dark birthplace; gushing up 
From the red mould and slimy roots of earth, 
Thou flashest in the sun. The mountain air, 
In winter, is not clearer, nor the dew 
That shines on mountain blossom. Thus doth 

God 
Bring, from the dark and foul, the pure and 
bright. 


This tangled thicket on the bank above 
Thy basin, how thy waters keep it green! 
For thou dost feed the roots of the wild vine 
That trails all over it, and to the twigs 
Ties fast her clusters. There the spice-bush lifts 
Her leafy lances; the viburnum there, 
Paler of foliage, to the sun holds up 
Her circlet of green berries. In and out 
The chipping sparrow, in her coat of brown, 
Steals silently, lest I should mark her nest. 


Not such thou wert of yore, ere yet the axe © 
Had smitten the old woods. Then hoary trunks 
Of oak, and plane, and hickory, o’er thee held 
A mighty canopy. When April winds 


144 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush 

Of scarlet flowers. The tulip-tree, high up, 
Opened, in airs of June, her multitude 

Of golden chalices to humming-birds 

And silken-winged insects of the sky. 


Frail wood-plants clustered round thy edge 
in Spring. 
The liverleaf put forth her sister blooms 
Of faintest blue. Here the quick-footed wolf, 
Passing to lap thy waters, crushed the flower 
Of sanguinaria, from whose brittle stem 
The red drops fell like blood. The deer, too, 
left 
Her delicate foot-print in the soft moist mould, 
And on the fallen leaves. The slow-paced bear, 
In such a sultry summer noon as this, 
Stopped at thy stream, and drank, and leaped 
across. 


But thou hast histories that stir the heart 
With deeper. feeling; while I look on thee 
They rise before me. I behold the scene 
Hoary again with forests; 1 behold 
The Indian warrior, whom a hand unseen 
Has smitten with his death-wound in the 

woods, 
Creep slowly to thy well-known rivulet, 
And slake his death-thirst. Hark, that quick 
fierce cry 
That rends the utter silence; ’tis the whoop 
Of battle, and a throng of savage men 
With naked arms and faces stained like blood, 
Fill the green wilderness; the long bare arms 


BRYANT’S POEMS 145 


Are heaved aloft, bows twang and arrows 
stream ; 

Each makes a tree his shield, and every tree 

Sends forth its arrow. Fierce the fight and 
short, 

As is the whirlwind. Soon the conquerors 

And conquered vanish, and the dead remain, 

Mangled by tomahawks. The mighty woods 

Are still again, the frighted bird comes back 

And plumes her wings; but thy sweet waters 
run 

Crimson with blood. Then, as the sun goes 
down, 

Amid the deepening twilight I descry 

Figures of men that crouch and creep unheard, 

And bear away the dead. The next day’s 
shower 

Shall wash the tokens of the fight away. 


I look again—a hunter’s lodge is built, 
With poles and boughs, beside thy crystal well, 
While the meek autumn stains the woods with 
gold, 
And sheds his golden sunshine. To the door 
The red man slowly drags the enormous bear 
Slain in the chestnut thicket, or flings down 
The deer from his strong shoulders. Shaggy 
fells 
Of wolf and cougar hang upon the walls, 
And loud the black-eyed Indian maidens laugh, 
That gather, from the rustling heaps of leaves, 
The hickory’s white nuts, and the dark fruit 
That falls from the gray butternut’s long 
boughs, 


10 Bryant’s 


146 BRYANT'S POEM: 


So centuries passed by, and still the woods 

Blossomed in spring, and reddened when the 
year 

Grew chill, and glistened in the frozen rains 

Of winter, till the white man swung the axe 

Beside thee—signal of a mighty change. 

Then all around was heard the crash of trees, 

Trembling awhile and rushing to the ground, 

The low of ox, and shouts of men who fired 

The brushwood, or who tore the earth with 
ploughs. 

The grain sprang thick and tall, and hid in 
green 

The blackened hill-side; ranks of spiky maize 

Rose like a host embattled; the buckwheat 

Whitened broad acres, sweetening with its 
flowers 

The August wind. White cottages were seen 

With rose-trees at the windows; barns from 
which 

Came loud and shrill the crowing of the cock; 

Pastures where rolled and neighed the lordly 
horse, 

And white flocks browsed and bleated. A rich 
turf 

Of grasses brought from far o’ercrept thy 
bank, 

Spotted ‘with the white clover. Blue-eyed 
girls 

Brought pails and dipped them in thy crystal 
pool; 

And children, ruddy-cheeked and flaxen- 
haired, 

Gathered the glistening cowslip from thy edge. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 147 


since then, what steps have trod thy border! 

Here 

On thy green bank, the woodman of the swamp 

Has laid his axe, the reaper of the hill 

His sickle, as they stooped to taste thy stream. 

The sportsman, tired with wandering in the 
still 

September noon, has bathed his heated brow 

in thy cool current. Shouting boys, let loose 

For a wild holiday, have quaintly shaped 

Into a cup the folded linden leaf, 

And dipped thy sliding crystal. From the wars 

Returning, the plumed soldier by thy side 

Has sat, and mused how pleasant ’twere to 
dwell 

In such a spot, and be as free as thou, 

And move for no man’s bidding more. At eve, 

When thou wert crimson with the crimson sky, 

Lovers have gazed upon thee,and have thought 

Their mingled lives should flow as peacefully 

And brightly as thy waters. Here the sage, 

Gazing into thy self-replenished depth, 

Has seen eternal order circumscribe 

And bind the motions of eternal change, 

And from the gushing of thy simple fount 

Has reasoned to the mighty universe. 


Is there no other change for thee, that lurks 
Among the future ages? Will not man 
Seek out strange arts to wither and deform 
The pleasant landscape which thou makest 
green? 
Or shall the veins that feed thy constant stream 
Be choked in middle earth, and flow no more 


148 BRYANT’S POEMS 


For ever, that the water-plants along 

Thy channel perish, and the bird in vain 
Alight to drink? Haply shall these green hills 
Sink, with the lapse of years, into the gulf 

Of ocean waters, and thy source be lost 
Amidst the bitter brine? Or shall they rise, 
Upheaved in broken cliffs and airy peaks, 
Haunts of the eagle and the snake, and thou 
Gush midway from the bare and barren steep? 





SONG 


Soon as the glazed and gleaming snow 
Reflects the day-dawn cold and clear, 
The hunter of the west must go 
In depth of woods to seek the deer. 


His rifle on his shoulder placed, 
His stores of death arranged with skill, 
His moccasins and snow-shoes laced,— 
Why lingers he beside the hill? 


Far, in the dim and doubtful light, 
Where woody slopes a valley leave, 

He sees what none but lover might, 
The dwelling of his Genevieve. 


And oft he turns his truant eye, 
And pauses oft, and lingers near; 
But when he marks the reddening sky, 
He bounds away to hunt the deer. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 149 


THE WEST WIND 


Beneath the forest’s skirts I rest, 

Whose branching pines rise dark and high, 
And hear the breezes of the West 

Among the threaded foliage sigh 


Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of woe? 
Is not thy home among the flowers? 
Do not the bright June roses blow, 
To meet thy kiss at morning hours? 


And lo! thy glorious realm outspread— 
Yon stretching valleys, green and gay, 

And yon free hill-tops, o’er whose head 
The loose white clouds are borne away. 


And there the full broad river runs, 

‘And many a fount wells fresh and sweet, 
To cool thee when the mid-day suns 

Have made thee faint beneath their heat. 


Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love; 
Spirit of the new-wakened year! 

The sun in his blue realm above 
Smooths a bright path when thou art here. 


In lawns the murmuring bee is heard, 
The wooing ring-dove in the shade; 
On thy soft breath the new-fledged bird 
Takes wing, half happy, half afraid. 


150 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Ah! thou art like our wayward race ;— 
When not a shade of pain or ill 

Dims the bright smile of Nature’s face, 
Thou lovest to sigh and murmur still. 





THE BURIAL-PLACE 
A FRAGMENT 


Erewhile, on England’s pleasant shores, our 

sires 

Left not their churchyards unadorned with 
shades 

Or blossoms; and indulgent to the strong 

And natural dread of man’s last home, the 
grave, 

Its frost and silence—they disposed around, 

To soothe the melancholy spirit that dwelt 

Too sadly on life’s close, the forms and hues 

Of vegetable beauty.— There the yew, 

Green even amid the snows of winter, told 

Of immortality, and gracefully 

The willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped; 

And there the gadding woodbine crept about, 

And there the ancient ivy. From the spot 

Where the sweet maiden, in her blossoming 
years 

Cut off, was laid with streaming eyes, and hands 

That trembled as they placed her there, the 
rose 

Sprung modest, on bowed stalk, and better 
spoke 

Her graces than the proudest monument. 

There children set about their playmate’s grave 


BRYANT’S POEMS 151 


The pansy. On the infant’s little bed, 

Wet at its planting with maternal tears, 

Emblem of early sweetness, early death, 

Nestled the lowly primrose. Childless dames, 

And maids that would not raise the reddened 
eye— 

Orphans, from whose young lids the light of 
Joy 

Fled early,—silent lovers, who had given 

All that they lived for to the arms of earth, 

Came often, o’er the recent graves to strew 

Their offerings, rue, and rosemary, and flowers. 


The pilgrim bands who passed the sea to 
Keep 

Their Sabbaths in the eye of God alone, 

In his wide temple of the wilderness, 

Brought not these simple customs of the heart 

With them. It might be, while they laid their 
dead 

By the vast solemn skirts of the old groves, 

And the fresh virgin soil poured forth strange 
flowers 

About their graves; and the familiar shades 

Of their own native isle, and wonted blooms, 

And herbs were wanting, which the pious hand 

Might plant or scatter there, these gentle rites 

Passed out of use. Now they are scarcely 
known, 

And rarely in our borders may you meet 

The tall larch, sighing in the burying-place, 

Or willow, trailing low its boughs to hide 

The gleaming marble. Naked rows of graves 

And melancholy ranks of monuments 


152 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Are seen instead, where the coarse grass, be- 
tween, 

Shoots up its dull green spikes, and in the wind 

Hisses, and the neglected bramble nigh 

Offers its berries to the schoolboy’s hand, 

In vain—they grow too near the dead. Yet 
here, 

Nature, rebuking the neglect of man, 

Plants often, by the ancient mossy stone, 

The brier rose, and upon the broken turf 

That clothes the fresher grave, the strawberry 
vine 

Sprinkles its swell with blossoms, an lays forth 

Her ruddy, poutine fruit) “ae 


THE LIVING LOST 


Matron! the children of whose love, 

Each to his grave, in youth hath passed, 
And now the mould is heaped above 

The dearest and the last! 
Bride! who dost wear the widow’s veil 
Before the wedding flowers are pale! 
Ye deem the human heart endures 
No deeper, bitterer grief than yours. 


Yet there are pangs of keener woe, 

Of which the sufferers never speak, 
Nor to the world’s cold pity show 

The tears that scald the cheek, 
Wrung from their eyelids by the shame 
And guilt of those they shrink to name, 
Whom once they loved with cheerful will, 
And love, though fallen and branded, still. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 153 


Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead, 
Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve; 
And reverenced are the tears ye shed, 
And honored ye who grieve. 
The praise of those who sleep in earth, 
The pleasant memory of their worth, 
The hope to meet when life is past, 
Shall heal the tortured mind at last. 


But ye, who for the living lost 
That agony in secret bear, 
Who shall with soothing words accost 
The strength of your despair? 
Grief for your sake is scorn for them 
Whom ye lament and all condemn; 
And o’er the world of spirits lies 
A gloom from which ye turn your eyes. 


THE MASSACRE AT SCIO 


Weep not for Scio’s children slain; 

Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed, 
Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain 

For vengeance on the murderer’s head. 


Though high the warm red torrent ran 
Between the flames that lit the sky, 

. Yet, for each drop, an armed man 

Shall rise, to free the land, or die. 


And for each corpse, that in the sea 
Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds, 
A hundred of the foe shall be 
A banquet for the mountain birds. 


154 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Stern rites and sad, shall Greece ordain 
To keep that day, along her shore, 
Till the last link of slavery’s chain 
Is shivered, to be worn no more. 





THE INDIAN GIRL’S LAMENT 


An Indian girl was sitting where 
Her lover, slain in battle, slept; 
Her maiden veil, her own black hair 
Came down o’er eyes that wept; 
And wildly, in her woodland tongue, 

This sad and simple lay she sung: 


‘‘T’ve pulled away the shrubs that grew 
Too close above thy sleeping head, 

And broke the forest boughs that threw 
Their shadows o’er thy bed, 

That, shining from the sweet south-west, 

The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest. 


‘‘It was a weary, weary road 
That led thee to the pleasant coast, 
Where thou, in his serene abode, 
Hast met thy father’s ghost; 
Where everlasting autumn lies 
On yellow woods and sunny skies. 


‘*’*Pwas I the broidered mocsen made, 
That shod thee for that distant land; 

’Twas I thy bow and arrows laid 
Beside thy still cold hand; 

Thy bow in many a battle bent, 

Thy arrows never vainly sent. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 15 


or 


‘“‘With wampum belts I crossed thy breast, 
And wrapped thee in the bison’s hide, 

And laid the food that pleased thee best, 
In plenty, by thy side, 

And decked thee bravely, as became 

A warrior of illustrious name. 


*Thou’rt happy now, for thou hast passed 
The long dark journey of the grave, 

_ And in the land of light, at last, 
Hast joined the good and brave; 

Amid the flushed and balmy air, 

The bravest and the loveliest there. 


‘“*Vet, oft to thine own Indian maid 
Even there thy thoughts will earthward 
stray,— 
To her who sits where thou wert laid, 
And weeps the hours away, 
Yet almost can her grief forget, 
To think that thou dost love her yet. 


‘‘And thou, by one of those still lakes 
That in a shining cluster lie, 

On which the south wind scarcely breaks 
The image of the sky, 

A bower for thee and me hast made 

Beneath the many-colored shade. 


‘‘And thou dost wait and watch to meet 
My spirit sent to join the blessed, 

And, wondering what detains my feet 
From the bright land of rest, 

Dost seem, in every sound, to hear 

The rustling of my footsteps near,.”’ 


156 BRYANT’S POEMS 


ODE FOR AN AGRICULTURAL CELE- 
BRATION 


Far back in the ages, 
The plough with wreaths was crowned; 
Entwined the chaplet round; 

Till men of spoil disdained the toil 
By which the world was nourished, 

The hands of kings and sages 

And dews of blood enriched the soil 
Where green their laurels flourished: 

—Now the world her fault repairs— 
The guilt that stains her story; 

And weeps her crimes amid the cares 
That formed her earliest glory. 


The proud throne shall crumble, 
The diadem shall wane, 

The tribes of earth shall humble 
The pride of those who reign; 

And War shall lay his pomp away ;— 
The fame that heroes cherish, 

The glory earned in deadly fray 
Shall fade, decay, and perish. 

Honor waits, o’er all the Earth, 
Through endless generations, 

The art that calls her harvests forth, 
And feeds the expectant nations. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 15) 


THE RIVULET 


This little rill, that from the springs 
Of yonder grove its current brings, 
Plays on the slope a while, and then 
Goes prattling into groves again, 

Oft to its warbling waters drew 

My little feet, when life was new. 
When woods in early green were dressed, 
And from the chambers of the west 
The warmer breezes, travelling out, 
Breathed the new scent of flowers about, 
My truant steps from home would stray, 
Upon its grassy side to play, 

List the brown thrasher’s vernal hymn, 
And crop the violet on its brim, 

With blooming cheek and open brow, 
As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou. 


And when the days of boyhood came, 
And I had grown in love with fame, 
Duly I sought thy banks, and tried 
My first rude numbers by thy side. 
Words cannot tell how bright and gay 
The scenes of life before me lay. 

Then glorious hopes, that now to speak 
Would bring the blood into my cheek, 
Passed o’er me; and I wrote, on high, 
A name I deemed should never die. 


8 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Years change thee not. Upon yon hill 
The tall old maples, verdant still, 
Yet tell, in grandeur of decay, 
How swift the years have passed away, 
Since first, a child, and half afraid, 
I wandered in the forest shade. 
Thou ever-joyous rivulet, 
Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet; 
And sporting with the sands that pave 
The windings of thy silver wave, 
And dancing to thy own wild chime, 
Thou laughest at the lapse of time. 
The same sweet sounds are in my ear 
My early childhood loved to hear; 
As pure thy limpid waters run, 
As bright they sparkle to the sun; 
As fresh and thick the bending ranks 
Of herbs that line thy oozy banks; 
The violet there, in soft May dew, 
Comes up, as modest and as blue; 
As green amid thy current’s stress, 
Floats the scarce-rooted watercress: 
And the brown ground-bird, in thy seen 
Still chirps as merrily as then, 


Thou changest not—but I am changed, 
Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged; 
And the grave stranger, come to see 
The play-place of his infancy, 

Has scarce a single trace of him 
Who sported once upon thy brim. 
The visions of my youth are past 
Too bright, too beautiful to last. 
I’ve tried the world—it wears no more 


BRYANT’S POEMS 159 


The coloring of romance it wore. 
Yet well has Nature kept the truth 
She promised to my earliest youth. 
The radiantbeauty shed abroad 

On all the glorious works of God, 
Shows freshly, to my sobered eye, 
Each charm it wore in days gone by. 


A few brief years shall pass away, 
And I, all trembling, weak, and gray, 
Bowed to the earth, which waits to fold 
My ashes in the embracing mould 
(If haply the dark will of fate 
Indulge my life so long a date), 

May come for the last time to look 
Upon my childhood’s favorite brook. 
Then dimly on my eyes shall gleam 
The sparkle of thy dancing stream; 
And faintly on my ear shall fall 

Thy prattling current’s merry call; 
Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright 
As when thou met’st my infant sight. 


And I shall sleep—and on thy side, 
As ages after ages glide, 
Children their early sports shall try, 
And pass to hoary age and die. 
But thou, unchanged from year to year, 
Gayly shalt play and glitter here; 
Amid young flowers and tender grass 
Thy endless infancy shalt pass; 
And, singing down thy narrow glen, 
Shalt mock the fading race of men. 


160 BRYANT’S POEMS 


MARCH 


The stormy March is come at last, 

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies, 
I hear the rushing of the blast, 

That through the snowy valley flies. 


Ah, passing few are they who speak, 
Wild stormy month! in praise of thee; 
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, — 
Thou art a welcome month to me. 


For thou, to northern lands, again 
The glad and glorious sun dost bring, 
And thou hast joined the gentle train 
And wear’st the gentle name of Spring. 


And, in thy reign of blast and storm, 
Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, 
When the changed winds are soft and warm, 
And heaven puts on the blue of May. 


Then sing aloud the gushing rills 

And the full springs, from frost set free, 
That, brightly leaping down the hills, 

Are just set out to meet the sea. 


The year’s departing beauty hides 
Of wintry storms the sullen threat; 
But in thy sternest frown abides 
A look of kindly promise yet. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 161 


Thou bring’st the hope of those calm skies, 
And that soft time of sunny showers, 

When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, 
Seems of a brighter world than ours. 


—_——_ 





SONNET TO 


Ay, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine 
Too brightly to shine long; another Spring 
Shall deck her for men’s eyes,—but not for 
thine— 
Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening. 
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf, 
And the vexed ore no mineral of power; 
And they who love thee wait in anxious grief 
Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour. 
Glide softly tothy rest then; Death should come 
Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, 
As light winds wandering through groves of 
bloom 
Detach the delicate blossom from the tree. 
Close thy sweet eyes, camly, and without pain; 
And we will trust in God to see thee yet again. 


AN INDIAN STORY 


‘*T know where the timid fawn abides 
In the depths of the shaded dell, 
Where the leaves are broad and the thicket 
hides, 
With its many stems and its tangled sides, 
From the eye of the hunter well. 
11 Bryant's 


162 BRYANT’S POEMS 


‘‘T know where the young May violet grows, 
In its lone and lowly nook, 
On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree 
throws 
Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose, 
Far over the silent brook. 


‘‘And that timid fawn starts not with fear 
When I steal to her secret bower; 
And that young May violet to me is dear, 
And I visit the silent streamlet near, 
To look on the lovely flower.’’ 


Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks 
To the hunting-ground on the hills; 
’Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, 
With her bright black eyes and long black 
locks, 
And voice like the music of rills. 


He goes to the chase—but evil eyes 
Are at watch in the thicker shades; 
For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, 
And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his 
prize, 
The flower of the forest maids, 


The boughs in the morning wind are stirred, 
And the woods their song renew, 

With the early carol of many a bird, 

And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard 
Where the hazels trickle with dew. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 163 


And Maquon has promised his dark-haired 
maid, 
Ere eve shall redden the sky, 
A good red deer from the forest shade, 
That bounds with the herd through grove and 
glade, 
At her cabin-door shall lie. 


The hollow woods, in the setting sun, 
Ring shrill with the fire-bird’s lay; 

And Maquon’s sylvan labors are done, 

And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won 
He bears on his homeward way. 


He stops near his bower—his eye perceives 
Strange traces along the ground— 
At once to the earth his burden he heaves, 
He breaks through the veil of boughs and 
leaves, 
And gains its door with a bound. 


But the -vines are torn on its walls that leant. 
And all from the young shrubs there 
By struggling hands have the leaves been rent, 
And there hangs on the sassafras, broken an¢ 
bent, 
One tress of the well-known hair. 


But where is she who, at this calm hour, 
Ever watched his coming to see? 

She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower; 

He calls—but he only hears on the flower 
The hum of the laden bee. 


164 BRYANT’S POEMS 


It is not a time for idle grief, 
Nor a time for tears to flow; 
The horror that freezes his limbs is brief— 
He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf 
Of darts made sharp for the foe. 


And he looks for the print of the ruffian’s feet, 
Where he bore the maiden away; 

And he darts on the fatal path more fleet 

Than the blast that hurries the vapor and sleet 
O’er the wild November day. 


’Twas early summer when Maquon’s bride 
Was stolen away from his door; 

But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, 

And the grape is black on the cabin side, — 
And she smiles at his hearth once more, 


But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold, 
Where the yellow leaf falls not, 

Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold, 

There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould, 
In the deepest gloom of the spot. 


And the Indian girls that pass that way, 
Point out the ravisher’s grave; 
‘‘ And how soon to the bower she loved,’”’ they 
say, 
**Returned the maid that was borne away 
From Maquon, the fond and the brave.’’ 


BRYANT’S POEMS 165 


SUMMER WIND 


It is sultry day; the sun has drunk 
The dew that lay upon the morning grass; 
There is no rustling in the lofty elm 
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade 
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint 
And interrupted murmur of the bee, 
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again 
Instantly on the wing. The plants around 
Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize 
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops 
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. 
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, 
With all their growth of woods, silent and 

stern, 

As if the scorching heat and dazzling light 
Were but anelement they loved. Bright clouds, 
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven, — 
Their bases on the mountains—their white tops 
Shining in the far ether—fire the air 
With a reflected radiance, and make turn 
The gazer’s eye away. For me, I lie 
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, 
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, 
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind 
That still delays its coming. Why so slow, 
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air? 
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth 


166 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves 

He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge, 

The pine is bending his proud top, and now 

Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak 

Are tossing their green boughs about. He 
comes! 

Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves! 

The deep distressful silence of the scene 

Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered 
sounds 

And universal motion. He is come, 

Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, 

And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings 

Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs, 

And sound of swaying branches, and the voice 

Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs 

Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers, 

By the road-side and the borders of the brook, 

Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves 

Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew 

Were on them yet, and silver waters break 

Into small waves and sparkle as he comes, 





SONG 


Dost thou idly ask to hear 
At what gentle seasons 
Nymphs relent, when lovers near 
Press the tenderest reasons? 
Ah, they give their faith too oft 
To the careless wooer; 
Maidens’ hearts are always soft: 
Would that men’s were truer! 


- 


BRYANT’S POEMS | 167 


Woo the fair one, when around 

_ Early birds are singing; 

When, over all the fragrant ground, 
Early herbs are springing: 

When the brookside, bank, and grove, 
All with blossoms laden, 

Shine with beauty, breathe of love,— 
Woo the timid maiden. 


Woo her when, with rosy blush, 
Summer eve is sinking; 
When, on rills that softly gush, 
Stars are softly winking; 
When, through boughs that knit the bower, 
Moonlight gleams are stealing; 
Woo her, till the gentle hour 
Wake a gentler feeling. 


Woo her, when autumnal dyes 
Tinge the woody mountain; 

When the dropping foliage lies 
In the weedy fountain; 

Let the scene, that tells how fast 
Youth is passing’ over, 

Warn her, ere her bloom is past, 
To secure her lover. 


Woo her, when the north winds call 
At the lattice nightly; 

When, within the cheerful hall, 
Blaze the fagots brightly; 

While the wintry tempest round 
Sweeps the landscape hoary, 

Sweeter in her ear shall sound 
Love’s delightful story. 


168 BRYANT’S POEMS 


AFTER A TEMPEST 


The day had been aday of wind and storm ;— 
The wind was laid, the storm was overpast,— 
And stooping from the zenith and warm 
Shone the great sun on the wide earth at 
last. 
I stood upon the upland slope, and cast 
My eye upon a. broad and beauteous scene, 
Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains 


vast, 
And hills o’er hills lifted their heads of 
green, 
With pleasant vales scooped out and villages 
between. j 


The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, 

Whose shadows on the tall grass were not 
stirred, 

Save when a shower of diamonds, to the 
ground, 

Was shaken by the flight of startled bird; 

For birds were warbling round, and bees 
were heard 

About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet sung 

And gossiped, as he hastened ocean-ward ; 

To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding, clung, 

And chirping from the ground the grasshopper 

upsprung. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 169 


And from beneath the leaves that kept them 
dry 

Flew many a glittering insect here anc there, 

And darted up and down the butterfly, 

That seemed a living blossom of the air. 

The flocks came scattering from the thicket, 
where 

The violent rain had pent them; in the way 

Strolled groups of damsels frolicksome and 
fair; 

The farmer swung the scythe or turned the 
hay, 

And ’twixt the heavy swaths his children 

were at play. 


It was a scene of peace—and, like a spell, 

Did that serene and golden sunlight fall 

Upon the motionless wood that clothed the 
fell, 

And precipice upspringing like a wall, 

And glassy river and white waterfall, 

And happy living things that trod the bright 

And beauteous scene; while far beyond them 
all, 

On many a lovely valley, out of sight, 

Was poured from the blue heavens the same 

soft golden light. 


I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene 

An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, 

When o’er earth’s continents, and isles be- 
tween, 

The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea, 

And married nations dwell in harmony: 


170 BRYANT’S POEMS 


When millions, crouching in the dust to one, 
- No more shall beg their lives on bended 
knee, 
Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the 
sun 
The o’erlabored captive toil, and wish his life 
were done. 


Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers 

And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, 

The fair earth, that should only blush with 
flowers 

And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last 

The storm, and sweet the sunshine when ’tis 
past. 

Lo, the clouds roll away—they break—they 
fly, 

And, like the glorious light of summer, cast 

O’er the wide landscape from the embracing 
sky, 

On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven 

shall lie. 


AUTUMN WOODS 


Ere, in the northern gale, 
The summer tresses of the trees are gone, 
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, 
Have put their glory on. 


The mountains that infold, 
In their wide sweep, the colored landscape 
round, 
Seem groups of giant kings, in purpleand gold, 
That guard the enchanted ground. 


BRYANT’S POEMS bg fh 


I roam the woods that crown 
The upland, where the mingled splendors glow, 
Where the gay company of trees look down 
On the green fields below. 


My steps are not alone 
In these bright walks; the sweet south-west, at 
play, 
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are 
strown 
Along the winding way. 


‘And far in heaven, the while, 
The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, 
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,— 
The sweetest of the year. 


Where now the solemn shade, 
Verdure and gloom where many branches meet; 
So grateful, when the noon of summer made 
The valleys sick with heat? 


Let in through all the trees 
Come the strange rays; the forest depths are 
bright; 
Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze 
Twinkles, like beams of light. 


The rivulet, late unseen, 
Where bickering through the shrubs its waters 
run, 
Shines with the image of its golden screen 
And glimmerings of the sun. 


172 BRYANT’S POEMS 


But ‘neath yon crimson tree, 
Lover to listening maid might breathe his 
flame, 
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, 
Her blush of maiden shame, 


Oh, Autumn! why so soon 
Depart the hues that make thy forests glad; 
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, 
And leave thee wild and sad? 


Ah! ’twere a lot too blessed 
For ever in thy colored shades to stray; 
Amid the kisses of the soft south-west 
To rove and dream for aye; 


And leave the vain low strife 
That makes men mad—the tug for wealth and 
power, 
The passions and the cares that wither life, 
And waste its little hour. 





NOVEMBER 
A SONNET 


Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun! 
One mellow smile through the soft vapory 
air, 
Ere, o’er the frozen earth, the loud winds run, 
Or snows are sifted o’er the meadows bare. 
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees, 
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths 
are cast, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 173 


And the blue gentian flower, that, in the 
breeze, — 
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the 
last. 
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee 
Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the 
way, 
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, 
And man delight to linger in thy ray. 
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear 
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and 
darkened air. 


SONG OF THE. GREEK AMAZON 


I buckle to my slender side 

The pistol and the scimitar, 
And in my maiden flower and pride 

Am come to share the tasks of war, 
And yonder stands my fiery steed, 

That paws the ground and neighs to go, 
My charger of the Arab breed,— 

I took him from the routed foe. 


My mirror is the mountain spring, 
At which I dress my ruffied hair; 
My dimmed and dusty arms I bring, 
And wash away the blood-stain there. 
Why should I guard from wind and sun 
This cheek, whose virgin rose is fled? 
It was for one—oh, only one— 
I kept its bloom, and he is dead. 


174 BRYANT’S POEMS 


But they who slew him—unaware 

Of coward murderers lurking nigh— 
And left him to the fowls of air, 

Are yet alive—and they must die. 
They slew him—and my virgin years 

Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now 
And many an Othman dame, in tears, 

Shall rue the Grecian maiden’s vow. 


’ 


I touched the lute in better days, 
I led in dance the joyous band; 
Ah! they may move to mirthful lays 
Whose hands can touch a lover’s hand. 
The march of hosts that haste to meet 
seems gayer than the dance to me; 
The lute’s sweet tones are not so sweet 
As the fierce shout of victory. 





THE MURDERED TRAVELER 


When spring, to woods and wastes around 
Brought bloom and joy again, 

The murdered traveler’s bones were found, 
Far down a narrow glen. 


The fragrant birch, above him, hung 
Her tassels in the sky; 

And many a vernal blossom sprung, 
And nodded careless by. 


The red-bird warbled, as he wrought 
His hanging nest o’erhead, 

And fearless, near the fatal spot, 
Her young the partridge led. 


wy 


BRYANT’S POEMS 17 


But there was weeping far away, 
And gentle eyes, for him, 

With watching many an anxious day, 
Were sorrowful and dim. 


They little knew, who loved him so, 
The fearful death he met, 

When shouting o’er the desert snow, 
Unarmed, and hard beset ;— 


Nor how, when round the frosty pole 
The northern dawn was red, 

The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole 
To banquet on the dead ;— 


Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 
They dressed the hasty bier, 

And marked his grave with nameless stones, 
Unmoistened by a tear. 


But long they looked, and feared, and wept, 
Within his distant home; 

And dreamed, and started as they slept, 
For joy that he was come. 


Long, long they looked—but never spied 
His welcome step again, 

Nor knew the fearful death he died 
Far down that narrow glen. 


176 BRYANT’S POEMS 


JUNE 


I gazed upon the glorious sky 
And the green mountains round; 
And thought that when I came to lie 
Within the silent ground, 
’T were pleasant, that in flowery June, 
When brooks send up a cheerful tune, 
And groves a joyous sound, 
The sexton’s hand, my grave to make, 
The rich, green mountain turf should break. 


A cell within the frozen mould, 

A coffin borne through sleet, 
And icy clouds above it rolled, 

While fierce the tempests beat— 
Away!—I will not think of these— 
Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, 

Earth green beneath the feet, 

And be the damp mould gently pressed 
Into my narrow place of rest, 


There through the long, long summer hours, 
The golden light should lie, 

And thick young herbs and groups of flowers 
Stand in their beauty by. 

The oriole should build and tell 

His love-tale close beside my cell; 
The idle butterfly 

Should rest him there, and there be heard 

The housewife bee and humming-bird. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 177 


And what if cheerful shouts at noon 
Come, from the village sent, 

Or song's of maids, beneath the moon 
With fairy laughter blent? 

And what if, in the evening light, 

Betrothed lovers walk in sight 
Of my low monument? 

I would the lovely scene around 

Might know no sadder sight nor sound. 


I know, I know I should not see 
The season’s glorious show, 

Nor would its brightness shine for me, 
Nor its wild music flow; 

But if, around my place of sleep, 

The friends I love should come to weep, 
They might not haste to go. 

Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom, 

Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 


These to their softened hearts should bear 
The thought of what has been, 

And speak of one who cannot share 
The gladness of the scene; 

Whose part, in all the pomp that fills 

The circuit of the summer hills, 
Is—that his grave is green; 

And deeply would their hearts rejoice 

To hear again his living voice. 


. 12 Bryant’s 


178 BRYANT'S POEMS 


THE SKIES 


Ay! glorious thou standest there, 
Beautiful, boundless firmament! 

That, swelling wide o’er earth and air, 
And round the horizon bent, 

With thy bright vault, and sapphire wall, 

Dost overhang and circle all. 


Far, far below thee, tall old trees 
Arise, and piles built up of old, 

And hills, whose an¢ient summits freeze 
In the fierce light and cold. 

The eagle soars his utmost height, 

Yet far thou stretchest o’er his flight. 


Thou hast thy frowns—with thee on high 
The storm has made his airy seat, 
Beyond that soft blue curtain lie 
His stores of hail and sleet. 
Thence the consuming lightning's break, 
There the strong hurricanes awake. 


Yet art thou prodigal of smiles— 

Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are stern: 
Earth sends, from all her thousand isles, 

A shout at thy return. 
The glory that comes down from thee, 
Bathes, in deep joy, the land and sea. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 179 


The sun, the gorgeous sun is thine, 
The pomp that brings and shuts the day, 
The clouds that round him change and shine, 
The airs that fan his way. 
Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there 
The meek moon walks the silent air. 


The sunny Italy may boast 
The beauteous tints that flush her skies, 
And lovely, round the Grecian coast, 
May thy blue pillars rise. 
I only know how fair they stand 
Around my own beloved land. 


And they are fair—a charm is theirs, 
That earth,the proud green earth, has not— 
With all the forms, and hues, and airs, 
That haunt her sweetest spot. 
We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere, 
And read of Heaven’s eternal year. 


Oh, when, amid the throng of men, 
The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, 
How willingly we turn us then 
Away from this cold earth, 
And look into thy azure breast, 
For seats of innocence and rest! 


180 BRYANT’S POEMS 


A MEDITATION ON RHODE-ISLAND 
COAL 


Decolor, obscuris, vilis, non ille repexam 
Cesariem regnum, non candida virginis ornat 
Colla, nec insigni splendet per cingula morsu. 
Sed nova si nigri videas miracula saxi, 
Tunc superat pulchros cultus et quicquid Eois 
Indus litoribus rubra scrutatur in alga. 
CLAUDIAN, 


I sat beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped 
With Newport coal, and as the flame grew 
bright 
—The many-colored flame—and played and 
leaped, 
I thought of rainbows and the northern light, 
Moore’s Lalla Rookh, the Treasury Report, 
And other brilliant matters of the sort. 


And last I thought of that fair isle which sent 
The mineral fuel; on a summer day 
I saw it once, with heat and travel spent, 
And scratched by dwarf-oaks in the hollow 
way; 
Now dragged through sand, now jolted over 
stone— 
A rugged road through rugged Tiverton. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 181 


And hotter grew the air, and hollower grew 
The deep-worn path, and horror-struck, I 
thought, 
Where will this dreary passage lead me to? 
This long dull road, so narrow, deep, and 
hot? 
I looked to see it dive in earth outright; 
I looked—but saw a far more welcome sight. 


Like a soft mist upon the evening shore, 
At once a lovely isle before me lay, 
Smooth and with tender verdure covered o’er, 
As if just risen from its calm inland bay; 
Sloped each way gently to the grassy edge, 
And the small waves that dallied with the 
sedge. 


The barley was just reaped—its heavy sheaves 
Lay on the stubble field—the tall maize stood 
Dark in its summer growth, and shook its 
leaves— 
And bright the sunlight played on the young 
wood— 
For fifty years ago, the old men say, 
The Briton hewed their ancient groves away. 


I saw where fountains freshened the green 
land, 
And where the pleasant road, from door to 
door, 
With rows of cherry-trees on either hand, 
Went wandering all that fertile region o’er— 
Rogue’s Island once—but when the rogues 
were dead, 
Khode Island was the name it took instead. 


182 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Beautiful island! then it only seemed 
A lovely stranger—it has grown a friend. . 
I gazed onitssmooth slopes, but never dreamed 
How soon that bright magnificent isle would 
send 
The treasures of its womb across the sea, 
To warm a poet’s room and boil his tea. 


Dark anthracite! that reddenest on my hearth, 
Thou’ in those island mines didst slumber 
long; 
But now thou art come forth to move the earth, 
And put to shame the men that mean thee 
wrong. 
Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that ere 
thee, 
And warm the shins of all that underrate thee. 


Yea, they did wrong thee foully—they who 
mocked 
Thy honest face, and said thou wouldst not 
burn; 
Of hewing thee to chimney-pieces talked, 
And grew profane—and swore, in bitter 
scorn, 
That men might to thy inner caves retire, 
And there, unsinged, abide the day of fire. 


Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to state, 
That I too have seen greatness—even I— 
Shook hands with Adams—stared at La Fayette, 
When, barehead, in the hot noon of July, 
He would not let the umbrella be held o’er him, 
For which three cheers burst from the mob 

before him, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 183 


And I have seen—not many months ago— 

An eastern Governor in chapeau bras 
And military coat, a glorious show! 

Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah! 
How oft he smiled and bowed to Jonathan! 
How many hands were shook and votes were 

won! 


"Twas a great Governor—thou too shalt be 
Great in thy turn—and wide shall spread thy 
fame, 
And swiftly; farthest Maine shall hear of thee, 
And cold New Brunswick gladden at thy 


name, 
And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping 
isle 
That sends the Boston folks their cod shall 
smile. 


For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt 
heat 
The hissing rivers into steam, and drive 
Huge masses from thy mines, on iron feet, 
Walking their steady way, as if alive, 
Northward, till everlasting ice besets thee, 
And south as far as the grim Spaniard lets thee. 


Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea, 
Like its own monsters—boats that for a 
guinea 
Will take a man to Havre—and shalt be 
The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny, 
And ply thy shuttles, till a bard can weaz 
As good a suit of broadcloth as the mayor. 


184 BRYANT’S' POEMS 


Then we will laugh at winter when we hear. 
The grim old churl about our dwellings rave: 
Thou, from that *“‘ruler of the inverted year,” 
Shalt pluck the knotty scepter Cowper gave, 
And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, 
And melt the icicles from off his chin, 


THE NEW MOON 


When, as the garish day is done, 

Heaven burns with the descended sun, 
"Tis passing sweet to mark, 

Amid that flush of crimson light, 

The new moon’s modest bow grow bright, 
As earth and sky grow dark. 


Few are the hearts too cold to feel 

A thrill of gladness o’er them steal, 
When first the wandering eye 

Sees faintly, in the evening blaze, 

That glimmering curve of tender rays 
Just planted in the sky. 


The sight of that young crescent brings 
Thoughts of all fair and youthful things— 
The hopes of early years; 
And childhood’s purity and grace, 
And joys that like a rainbow chase 
The passing shower of tears. 


The captive yields him to the dream 
Of freedom, when that virgin beam 
Comes out upon the air: 
And painfully the sick man tries 
To fix his dim and burning eyes 
On the soft promise there. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 185 


Most welcome to the lover’s sight, 

Glitters that pure, emerging light; 
For prattling poets say, 

That sweetest is the lovers’ walk, 

And tenderest is their murmured talk, 
Beneath its gentle ray. 


And there do graver men behold 
A type of errors, loved of old, 
Forsaken and forgiven; 
And thoughts and wishes not of earth, 
Just opening in their early birth, 
Like that new light in heaven. 





OCTOBER 
mh A SONNET 


Ay, thou art welcome, heaven’s delicious 
breath, 
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, 
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns 
grow brief, 
And the year smiles as it draws near its death. 
Wind of the sunny south! oh still delay 
In the gay woods and in the golden air, 
Like to a good old age released from care, 
Journeying, in long serenity, away. 
In such a bright, late quiet, would that I 
Might wear out life like thee, mid bowers 
and brooks, 
And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, 
And music of kind voices ever nigh; 
And when my last sand twinkled in the glass. 
Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass 


186 '  BRYANT’S POEMS 


THE DAMSEL OF PERU 


Where olive leaves were twinkling in every 
wind that blew, 

There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsei 
of Peru. 

Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to 
the air, 

Came glimpses of her ivory neck and of her 
glossy hair; 

And sweetly rang her silver voice, within that 
shady nook, 

As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound 
of hidden brook. 


’'Tis a song of love and valor, in the noble 
Spanish tongue, 

That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile 
was sung; 

When, from their mountain holds, on the 
Moorish rout below, 

Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and 
Swept away the foe. 

Awhile that melody is still, and then breaks 
forth anew 

A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom 
and Peru. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 187 


For she has bound the sword to a youthful 
lover’s side, 

And sent him to the war the day she should 
have been his bride, 

And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle 
for the right, 

And held the fountains of her eyes till he was 
out of sight. 

Since the parting kiss was given, six weary 
months are fled, | 

And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must 
yet be shed. 


A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face 
looks forth, 

And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and 
sadly toward the north. 

Thou look’st in vain, sweet maiden, the sharp- 
est sight would fail 

To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the 
vale; 

For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams 
fiercely beat, 

And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reel- 
ing in the heat. 


That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad 
face 1s gone, 

But the music of that silver voice is flowing 
sweetly on, 

Not as of late, in cheerful tones, but mourn- 
fully and low,— 

A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long 
ago, 


188 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Of him who died in battle, the youthful and 
the brave, 

And her who died of sorrow, upon his early 
grave. 


But see, along that mountain’s slope, a fiery 
horseman ride; 

Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the 
saber at his side. 

His spurs are buried rowel-deep, he rides with 
loosened rein, 

There’s blood upon his charger’s flank and 
foam upon the mane; 

He speeds him toward the olive-grove, along 
that shaded hill; 

God shield the helpless maiden there, if he 
should mean her ill! 


And suddenly that song has ceased, and sud- 
denly I hear 

A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek—but 
not of fear. 

For tender accents follow, and tender pauses 
speak | 

The overflow of gladness, when words are all 
too weak: 

“TI lay my good sword at thy feet, for now 
Peru is free, 

And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove 
with thee, *’ 


BRYANT’S POEMS 189 


THE AFRICAN CHIEF 


Chained in’the market-place he stood, 
A man of giant frame, 
Amid the gathering multitude 
That shrunk to hear his nane— 
All stern of look and strong of limb, 
His dark eye on the ground :— 
And silently they gazed on him, 
As on a lion bound. 


Vainly, but well, that chief had fought, 
He was a captive now, 

Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, 
Was written on his brow. 

The scars his dark broad bosom wore, 
Showed warrior true and brave; 

A prince among his tribe before, 
He could not be a slave. 


Then to his conqueror he spake— 
**My brother is a king; 

Undo this necklace from my neck, 
And take this bracelet ring, 

And send me where my brother reigns, 
And I will fill thy hands 

With store of ivory from the plains, 
And gold-dust from the sands.’’ 


190 BRYANT’S POEMS 


**Not for thy ivory nor thy gold 
Will I unbind thy chain; 

That bloody hand shall never hold 
The battle-spear again. 

A price thy nation never gave 
Shall yet be paid for thee; 

For thou shalt be the Christian’s slave, 
In lands beyond the sea.’’ 


Then wept th- warrior chief, and bade 
To sh._u nis locks away; 

And one by one, each heavy braid 
Before the victor lay. 

Thick were the platted locks, and long, 
And closely hidden there 

Shone many a wedge of gold among 
The dark and crisped hair. 


‘*Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold 
Long kept for sorest need: 

Take it—thou askest sums untold, 
And say that I am freed. 

Take it—my wife, the long, long day, 
Weeps by the cocoa-tree, 

And my young children leave their play, 
And ask in vain for me.’’ 


**T take thy gold—but I have made 
Thy fetters fast and strong, 

And ween that by the cocoa shade 
Thy wife will wait thee long.’’ 

Strong was the agony that shook 
The captive’s frame to hear, 

And the proud meaning of his look 
Was changed to mortal fear. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 19] 


His heart was broken—crazed his brain: 
At once his eye grew wild; 

He struggled fiercely with his chain, 
Whispered, and wept, and smiled; 

Yet wore not long those fatal bands, 
And once, at shut of day, 

They drew him forth upon the sands, 
The foul hyena’s prey. 





SPRING IN TOWN 


The country ever has a lagging Spring, 
Waiting for May to call its violets forth, 
AndJune its roses—showers and sunshine bring, 
Slowly, the deepening verdure o’er the 
earth; 
To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, 
And one by one the singing-birds come back. 


Within the city’s bounds the time of flowers 
Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day, 
Such as full often, for a few bright hours, 
Breathes through the sky of March the airs 
of May, 
Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry 
gloom— 
And lo! our borders glow with sudden bloom. 


For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then 
Gorgeous as are a rivulet’s banks in June, 
That, overhung with blossoms, through its glen, 
Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon, 
And they who search the untrodden wood for 

flowers 
Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours. 


192 BRYANT’S POEMS 


For here are eyes that shame the violet, 
Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies, 
And foreheads, white, as when in clusters set, 
The anemones by forest fountains rise; 
And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer 
streak 
Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek. 


And thick about those lovely temples lie 
Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled, 
Thrice happy man; whose trade it is to buy, 
And bake, and braid those love-knots of the 
world; 
Who curls of every glossy color keepest, 
And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest. 


And well thou mayst—for Italy’s brown maids 
Send the dark locks with which their brows 
are dressed, 
And Gascon lasses, from their jetty braids, 
Crop half, to buy a riband for the rest; 
But the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare, 
And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair. 


Then, henceforth, let no maid nor matron) 
grieve, 
To see her locks of an unlovely hue, 
Frouzy or thin, for liberal art shall give 
Such piles of curls as nature never knew. 
Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight 
Had blushed, outdone, and owned herself a 
fright. 


BRYANTS POEMS 193 


Soft voices and light laughter wake the street, 
Like notes of woodbirds, and where’er the 
eye 
Threads the long way, plumes wave, and 
twinkling feet 
Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by. 
The ostrich, hurrying o’er the desert space, 
Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter 
pace. 


No swimming Juno gait, of languor born, 

Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace, 
Light as Camilla’s o’er the unbent corn,— 

A step that speaks the spirit of the place, 
Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away 
To Sing Sing and the shores of Tappan bay. 


Ye that dash by in chariots! who will care 
For steeds or footmen now? ye cannot show 
Fair face. and dazzling dress, and graceful 
air, 
And last edition of the shape! Ah no, 
These sights are for the earth and open sky, 
And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by. 


THE GLADNESS OF NATURE 


Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, 
When our mother Nature laughs around; 
When even the deep blue heavens look glad, 
And gladness breathes from the blossoming 
ground? | 
*3 Bryant's 


194 BRYANT’S POEMS 


There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and 
wren, 
And the gossip of swallows through all the 
sky; 
The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den, 
And the wilding bee hums merrily by. 


The clouds are at play in the azure space, 
And their shadows at play on the bright 
green vale, 
And here they stretch to the frolic chase, 
And there they roll.on the easy gale. 


There’s a dance of leaves in that aspen bower 
There’s a titter of winds in that beechen tree, 
There’s a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the 
flower, 
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the 
sea. 


And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles 
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, 

On the leaping waters and gay young isles; 
Ay, look, and he’ll smile thy gloom away. 


THE TWO GRAVES 


'Tis a bleak, wild hill—but green and bright 
In the summer warmth and the mid-day light; 
There’s the hum of the bee and the chirp of 

the wren, 
And the dash of the brook from the alder glen; 
There’s the sound of a bell from the scattered 
flock, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 195: 


And the shade of the beech lies cool on the rock, 

And fresh from the west is the free wind’s 
breath, — 

There is nothing here that speaks of death. 


Far yonder, where orchards and gardens lie, 
And dwellings cluster, ’tis there men die. 
They are born, they die, and are buried near, 
Where the populous grave-yard lightens the 

bier; 
For strict and close are the ties that bind 
In death the children of human-kind; 
Yea, stricter and closer than those of life, — 
’Tis a neighborhood that knows no strife. 
They are noiselessly gathered—friend and foe— 
To the still and dark assemblies below; 
Without a frown or a smile they meet, 
Each pale and calm in his winding-sheet; 
In that sullen home of peace and gloom, 
Crowded, like guests in a banquet-room. 


Yet there are graves in this lonely spot, 
Two humble graves,—but I meet them not. 
I have seen them,—eighteen years are past, 
Since I found their place in the brambles last, — 
The place where, fifty winters ago, 
An aged man in his locks of snow, 
And an aged matron, withered with years, 
Were solemnly laid!—but not with tears. 
For none, who sat by the light of their hearth, 
Beheld their coffins covered with earth; 
Their kindred were far, and their children dead, 
When the funeral prayer was coldly said. . 





196 BRYANT’S POEMS 

Two low green hillocks, two small gray 

- stones, 

Rose over the place that held their bones; 
But the grassy hillocks are leveled again, 
And the keenest eye might search in vain, 
’Mong briers, and ferns, and paths of sheep, 
For the spot where the aged couple sleep. 


Yet well might they lay, beneath the soil 

Of this lonely spot, that man of toil, 

And trench the strong hard mould with the 
spade, 

Where never before a grave was made; 

For he hewed the dark old woods away, 

And gave the virgin fields to the day; 

And the gourd and the bean, beside his door, 

Bloomed where their flowers ne’er opened 
before; 

And the maize stood up, and the bearded 
rye 

Bent low in the breath of an unknown sky 


"Tis said that when life is ended here, 
The spirit is borne to a distant sphere; 
That it visits its earthly home no more, 
Nor looks on the haunts it loved before. 
But why should the bodiless soul be sent 
Far off, to a long, long banishment? 

Talk not of the light and the living green! 

It will pine for the dear familiar scene; 

Tt will yearn, in that strange bright world, to 
behold 

The rock and the stream it knew of old. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 197 


’Tis a cruel creed, believe it not! 
Death to the good is a milder lot. 
They are here,—that harmless pair, 
In the yellow sunshine and flowing air, 
In the light cloud-shadows that slowly pass, 
In the sounds that rise from the murmuring 
erass, 
They sit where their htmble cottage stood, 
They walk by the waving edge of the wood, 
And list to the long-accustomed flow 
Of the brook that wets the rocks below. 
Patient, and peaceful, and passionless, 
As seasons on seasons swiftly press, 
They watch, and wait, and linger around, 
Till the day when their bodies shall leave the 
ground. 


—— 


A SUMMER RAMBLE 


The quiet August noon has come, 
A slumberous silence fills the sky, 
The fields are still, the woods are dumb, 
In glassy sleep the waters lie. 


And mark yon soft white clouds that rest 
Above our vale, a moveless throng; 

The cattle on the mountain’s breast 
Enjoy the grateful shadows long. 


Oh, how unlike those merry hours 
In early June when Earth laughs out, 
When the fresh winds make love to flowers, 
And woodlands sing and waters shout. 


Ls BRYANT’S POEMS 


When in the grass sweet voices talk, 
And strains of tiny music swell 

From every moss-cup of the rock, 
From every nameless blossom’s bell. 


But now a joy too deep for sound, 
A peace no other season knows, 

Hushes the heavens and wraps the ground, 
The blessing of supreme repose. 


Away! I will not be, to-day, 
The only slave of toil and care. 
Away from desk and dust! away! 
I’l1l be as idle as the air. 


Beneath the open sky abroad, 

Among the plants and breathing things, 
The sinless, peaceful works of God, 

I’ll share the calm the season brings. 


Come, thou, in whose soft eyes I see 
The gentle meanings of thy heart, 

One day amid the woods with me, 
From men and all their cares apart. 


And where, upon the meadow’s breast, 
The shadow of the thicket lies, 

The blue wild flowers thou gatherest 
Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes. 


Come, and when mid the caim profound, 
I turn, those gentle eyes to seek, 

They, like the lovely landscape round, 
Of innocence and peace shall speak, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 199 


Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade, 
And on the silent valleys gaze, 

Winding and widening, till they fade 
In yon soft ring of summer haze. 


The village trees their summits rear 
Still as its spire, and yonder flock 

At rest in those calm fields appear 
As chiseled from the lifeless rock. 


One tranquil mount the scene o’erlooks— 
There the hushed winds their sabbath keep, 

While a,near hum from bees and brooks 
Comes faintly like the breath of sleep 


Well may the gazer deem that when, 
Worn with the struggle and the strife, 

And heart-sick at the wrongs of men, 
The good forsakes the scene of life; 


Like this deep quiet that, awhile, 
Lingers the lovely landscape o’er, 

Shall be the peace whose holy smile 
Welcomes him to a happier shore. 





A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF THE 
HUDSON 


Cool shades and dews are round my way, 
And silence of the early day; 

Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed, 
Glitters the mighty Hudson spread, 
Unrippled, save by drops that fall 

From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall; 
And o’er the clear still water swells 

The music of the Sabbath bells. 


‘ 


200 BRYANT’S POEMS 


All, save this little nook of land, 

Circled with trees on which I stand; 

All, save that line of hills which lie 
Suspended in the mimic sky— 

Seems a blue void, above, below, 

Through which the white clouds come ard 


£9, 
And from the green world’s farthest steep 
I gaze into the airy deep. 


Loveliest of lovely things are they, 

On earth, that soonest pass away. 

The rose that lives its little hour 

Is prized beyond the sculptured flower. 
Even love, long tried and cherished long, 
Becomes more tender and more strong, 
At thought of that insatiate grave 

From which its yearnings cannot save. 


River! in this still hour thou hast 
Too much of heaven on earth to last; 
Nor long may thy still waters lie, 

An image of the glorious sky. 

Thy fate and mine are not repose, 
And ere another evening close, 

Thou to thy tides shalt turn again, 
And I to seek the crowd of men. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 201 


WILLIAM TELL 
A SONNET 


Chains may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee, 
Tell, of the iron heart! they could not tame! 
For thou wert of the mountains; they proclaim 

The everlasting creed of liberty. 

That creed is written on the untrampled snow, 
Thundered by torrents which no power can 

hold, 
Save that of God, when hesends forth his cold, 

And breathed by winds that through the free 

heaven blow. 

Thou, while thy prison walls were dark around, - 
Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught. 
And to thy brief captivity was brought 

A vision of thy Switzerland unbound. 

The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened 
thee 
For the great work to set thy country free. 


THE HUNTER’S SERENADE 


Thy bower is finished, fairest! 

Fit bower for hunter’s bride— 
Where old woods overshadow 

The green savanna’s side. | 
I’ve wandered long, and wandered far, 

And never have | met 


~ 


202 


BRYANT’S POEMS 


In all this lovely western land, 
A spot so lovely yet. 

But I shall think it fairer, 
When thou art come to bless, 

With thy sweet smile and silver voice, 
Its silent loveliness. 


For thee the wild grape glistens, 
On sunny knoll and tree, 

The slim papaya ripens 
Its yellow fruit for thee. 

For thee the duck, on glassy stream, 
The prairie-fowl shall die, 

My rifle for thy feast shall bring 
The wild swan from the sky. 

The forest’s leaping panther, 
Fierce, beautiful, and fleet, 

Shall yield his spotted hide to be 
A carpet for thy feet. 


I know, for thou hast told me, 
Thy maiden love of flowers; 
Ah, those that deck thy gardens 

Are pale compared with ours. 


When our wide woods and mighty lawns 


Bloom to the April skies, 

The earth has no more gorgeous sight 
To show to human eyes. 

In meadows red with blossoms, 
All summer long, the bee 

Murmurs, and loads his yellow thighs, 
For thee, my love, and me. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 


Or wouldst thou gaze at tokens 
Of ages long ago— 

Our old oaks stream with mosses, 
And sprout with mistletoe; 

And mighty vines, like serpents, climb 
The giant sycamore; 

And trunks, o’erthrown for centuries, 
Cumber the forest floor; 

And in the great savanna, 
The solitary mound, 

Built by the elder world, o’erlooks 
The loneliness around. 


Come, thou hast not forgotten 
Thy pledge and promise quite, 

With many blushes murmured, 
Beneath the evening light. 

Come, the young violets crowd my door, 
Thy earliest look to win, 

And at my silent window-sill 
The jessamine peeps in. 

All day the red-bird warbles, 
Upon the mulberry near, 

And the night-sparrow trills her song, 
All night, with none to hear. 


203 


204 ERYANT’S POEMS 


THE GREEK BOY 


Gone are the glorious Greeks of old, 
Glorious in mien and mind; 

Their bones are mingled with the mould, 
Their dust is on the wind; 

The forms they hewed from living stone 

Survive the waste of years, alone, 

And, scattered with their ashes, show 

What greatness perished long ago. 


Yet fresh the myrtles there—the springs 
Gush brightly as of yore; 

Flowers blossom from the dust of kings, 
As many an age before. 

There nature moulds as nobly now, 

As e’er of old, the human brow; 

And copies still the martial form 

That braved Platza’s battle storm. 


Boy! thy first looks were taught to seek 
Their heaven in Hellas’ skies; 

Her airs have tinged thy dusky cheek, 
Her sunshine lit thine eyes; 

Thine ears have drunk the woodland strains 

Heard by old poets, and thy veins 

Swell with the blood of demigods, 

That slumber in thy country’s sods. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 205 


Now is thy nation free-—_though late— 
Thy elder brethren broke— 

Broke, ere thy spirit felt its weight, 
The intolerable yoke. 

And Greece, decayed, dethroned, doth see 

Her youth renewed in such as thee: 

A shoot of that old vine that made 

The nations silent in its shade. 





“WHEN THE FIRMAMENT QUIVERS 
WITH DAYLIGHT’S YOUNG BEAM”’ 


When the firmament quivers with daylight’s 
young beam, 
And the woodlands awaking burst into a 
hymn, 
And the glow of the sky blazes back from the 
stream, 
How the bright ones of heaven in the bright- 
ness grow dim. ~ 


Oh! ’tis sad, in that moment of glory und song, 
Tosee, while the hill-tops are waiting the sun, 
The glittering band that kept watch all night 
long 
O'er Love and o’er Slumber, go out one by 
one: 


Till the circle of ether, deep, ruddy, and vast, 
Scarce glimmers with one of the train that 
were there; 
And their leaders the day-star, the brightest and 
last 
Twinkles faintly and fades in the desert of 
air. 


206 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Thus, Oblivion, from midst of whose shadow 
we came, 
Steals o’er us again when life’s twilight is 
gone; 
And the crowd of bright names, in the heaven 
of fame, 
Grow pale and are quenched as the years 
hasten on. 


Let them fade—but we'll pray that the age, in 
whose flight, 
Of ourselves and our friends the remem- 
brance shall die, 
May rise o’er the world, with the gladness and 
light 
Of the morning that withers the stars from 
the sky. 


TO THE RIVER ARVE 


SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT A HAMLET NEAR 
THE FOOT OF MONT BLANC 


Not from the sands or cloven rocks, 
Thou rapid Arve! thy waters flow; 
Nor earth, within her bosom, Iccks 
Thy dark unfathomed wells below. 
Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream 
Begins to move and murmur first 
Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam, 
Or rain-storms on the glacier burst. 


Born where the thunder and the blast, 
And morning’s earliest light are born, 

Thou rushest swol’n, and loud, and fast, 
By these low homes, as if in scorn: 


BRYANT S POEMS 207 


Yet humbler springs yield purer waves; 
And brighter, glassier streams than thine, 
Sent up from earth’s unlighted caves, 
With heaven’s own beam and image shine. 


Yet stay; for here are flowers and trees; 
Warm rays on cottage roofs are here, 

And laugh of girls, and hum of bees— 
Here linger till thy waves are clear. 

Thou heedest not—thou hastest on; 
From steep to steep thy torrent falls, 

Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone, 
It rests beneath Geneva’s walls. 


Rush on—but were there one with me 
That loved me, I would light my hearth 
Here, where with God’s own majesty 
Are touched the features of the earth. 
By these old peaks, white, high, and vast, 
Still rising as the tempests beat, 
Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last, 
Among the blossoms at their feet. 


TO COLE, THE PAINTER, DEPARTING 
FOR EUROPE 


A SONNET 


Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies: 
Yet, Cole! thy heart shall bear to Europe’s 
strand 
A living image of thy native land, 
such as on thine own glorious canvas lies; 
Lone lakes—savannas where the bison roves— 


208 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Rocks rich with summer garlands—solemn 


streams— 
Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and 
screams— 
Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless 
groves. 
Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest 
—fair, 


But different—everywhere the trace of men, 
Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest 
. glen 
To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air; 
Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy 
sight, 
But keep that earlier, wilder image bright. 


—_ 


HYMN OF THE City 


Not in the solitude 
Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see 
Only in savage wood 
And sunny vale, the present Deity; 
Or only hear his voice 
Where the winds whisper and the waves 
rejoice. 


Even here do I behold 

Thy steps, Almighty !—here,amidst the crowd, 
Through the great city rolled, 

With everlasting murmur deep and loud— 
Choking the ways that wind 

*Mongst the proud piles, the work of human 
‘kind, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 209 


Thy golden sunshine comes 
From the round heaven, and on their dwellings 
lies, 
And lights their inner homes; 
For them thou fill’st with air the unbounded 
skies, : 
And givest them the stores 
Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. 


Thy Spirit is around, 

Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along, 
And this eternal sound— 

Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng— 
Like the resounding sea, 

Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee. 


And when the hours of rest 

Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, 
Hushing its billowy breast— 

The quiet of that moment too is thine; 
lt breathes of Him who keeps 

The vast and helpless city while it sleeps. 


A WALK AT SUNSET 


When insect wings are glistening in the beam 
Of the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright, 
Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream, 
Wander amid the mild and mellow light; 
And, while the wood-thrush pipes his evening 
lay, 
Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting 
day. 


14 Bryant’s 


210 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Oh, sun! that o’er the western mountains now 
Go’st down in glory! ever beautiful 
And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou 
Colorest the eastern heaven and night-mist 
cool, 
Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high 
Climbest and streamest thy white splendors 
from mid sky. , 


Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair, 
Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues 
That live among the clouds and flush the air, 

Lingering and deepening at the hour of 
dews. 
Then softest gales are breathed, and softest 
heard 
The plaining voice of streams and pensive note 
of bird. 


They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide, 
Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms 
won; 
They deemed their quivered warrior, when he 
died, 
Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun; 
Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are 
fair, 
And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson 
air. 


So, with the glories of the dying day, 
Its thousand trembling lights and changing 
hues, 
The memory of the brave who passed away 


BRYANT’S POEMS 211 


Tenderly mingled ;—fitting hour to muse 
On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that 
shed 
Brightness and beauty round the destiny of the 
dead. 


For ages, on the silent forests here, 
Thy beams did fall before the red man came 
To dwell beneath them; in their shade the deer 
Fed, and feared not the arrow’s deadly aim. - 
Nor tree was felled in all that world of woods, 
Save by the beaver’s tooth, or winds, or rush 
of floods. 


Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst 
look, 
For ages, on their deeds in the hard chase, 
And well-fought wars; green sod and silver 
brook 
Took the first stain of blood; before thy face 
The warrior generations came and passed, 
And glory was laid up for many an age to last. 


Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze 
Goes down the west, while night is pressing 
on, 
And with them the old tale of better days 
And trophies of remembered power, are gone. 
Yon field that gives the harvest, where the 
plough 
Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their 
story now. 


212 BRYANT’S POEMS 


I stand upon their ashes in thy beam, 
The offspring of another race, I stand, 
Beside a stream they loved, this valley stream; 
Andwhere the night-fires of the quivered band 
Showed the gray oak by fits, and war-song rung, 
I teach the quiet shades the strains of this new 
tongue. 


Farewell! but thou shalt come again! thy light 
Must shine on other changes, and behold 
The place of the thronged city still as night— 
States fallen—new empires built upon the 
old— 
But never shalt thou see these realms again 
Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by 
savage men. 


CONSUMPTION 


Ay. thou art for the grave; thy glances shine 
Too brightly to shine long; another Spring 
Shall deck her for men’s eyes, but not for 
thine— 
Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening. 
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf, 
And the vexed ore no mineral of power; 
And they who love thee wait in anxious grief 
Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal 
hour. 
Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should 
come, 
Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 213 


As light winds wandering through groves of 
bloom 
Detach the delicate blossom’ from the tree. 
Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain; 
And we will trust in God to see thee yet again. 


THE FIRMAMENT 


Ay! gloriously thou standest there, 
Beautiful, boundless firmament! 
That, swelling wide o’er earth and air, 
| And round the horizon bent, 
With thy bright vault, and sapphire wall, 
Dost overhang and circle all. 


Far, far below thee, tall gray trees 
Arise, and piles built up of old, 

And hills, whose ancient summits freeze 
In the fierce light and cold. 

The eagle soars his utmost height, 

Yet far thou stretchest o’er his flight. 


Thou hast thy frowns— with thee on high’ 
The storm has made his airy seat. 
Beyond that soft blue curtain lie 
His stores of hail and sleet. 
Thence the consuming lightnings break, 
There the strong hurricanes awake. 


Yet art thou prodigal of smiles— 

Smiles, sweeter than thy frowns are stern. 
Earth sends, from all her thousand isles, 

A shout at their return. 
The glory that comes down from thee, 
Bathes, in deep joy, the land and sea, 


~ 


214 BRYANT’S POEMS 


The sun, the gorgeous sun is thine, 
The pomp that brings and shuts the day, 
The clouds that round him change and shine, 
The airs that fan his way. 
Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there 
The meek moon walks the silent air. 


The sunny Italy may boast 
The beauteous tints that flush her skies, 
And lovely, round the Grecian coast, 
May thy blue pillars rise. 
I only know how fair they stand 
Around my own beloved land. 


And they are fair—a charm is theirs, 
That earth, the proud green earth, has not— 
With all the forms, and hues, and airs, 
That haunt her sweetest spot. 
We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere, 
And read of Heaven’s eternal year. 


Oh, when, amid the throng of men, 
The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, 
How willingly we turn us then 
Away from this cold earth, 
And look into thy azure breast, 
For seats of innocence and rest! 


BRYANT’S POEMS 


THE GREEK PARTISAN 


Our free flag is dancing 
In the free mountain air, 

And burnished arms are glancing, 
And warriors gathering there! 

‘nd fearless is the little train 
\Vhose gallant bosoms shield it; 


215 


“he blood that warms their hearts shall 


stain 
That banner ere they yield it. 
—Each dark eye is fixed on earth, 
And brief each solemn greeting; 
There is no look nor sound of mirth, 
Where those stern men are meeting. 


They go to the slaughter, 
To strike the sudden blow, 

And pour.on earth, like water, 
The best blood of the foe; 

To rush on them from rock and height. 
And clear the narrow valley, 

Or fire their camp at dead of night, 
And fly before they rally. 

—Chains are round our country pressed, 
And cowards have betrayed her, 

And we must make her bleeding breast 
The grave of the invader, 


216 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Not till from her fetters 
We raise up Greece again, 
And write, in bloody letters, 
That tyranny is slain, — 

Oh, not till then the smile shall steal 
Across those darkened faces, 
Nor one of all those warriors feel 
His children’s dear embraces. 
—Reap we not the ripened wheat, 
Till yonder hosts are flying, 
And all their bravest, at our feet, 

Like autumn sheaves are lying. 


THE. STRANGE CADDY 


The summer morn is bright and fresh, the 
birds are darting by, 

As if they loved to breast the breeze that 
sweeps the cool clear sky; 

Young Albert, in the forest’s edge, has heard 
a rustling sound, 

An arrow lightly strikes his hand and falls upon 
the ground. 


A dark-haired woman from the wood comes 
suddenly in sight; 

Her merry eye is full and black, her cheek is 
brown and bright; 

Her gown is of the mid-sea blue, her belt with 
beads is strung, 

And yet she speaks in gentle tones, and in the 
English tongue. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 217 


**It was an idle bolt I sent, against the villain 
CTOW ; 

Fair sir, I fear it harmed thy hand; beshrew 
my erring bow!’’ 

**Ah! would that bolt had not been spent! then, 
lady, might I wear 

A lasting token on my hand of one so passing 
fair!’’ 


‘“Thou art a flatterer like the rest, but wouldst 
thou take with me 

A day of hunting in the wilds, beneath the 
greenwood tree? 

I know where most the pheasants feed, and 
where the red deer herd, 

And thou shouldst chase the nobler game, and 
I bring down the bird.’’ 


Now Albert in her quiver lays the arrow in its 
place, 

And wonders as he gazes on the beauty of her 
face: 

‘Those hunting-grounds are far away, and, 
lady, ’twere not meet, 

That night, amid the wilderness, should over- 
tame thy feet, *’ 


‘“Heed not the night; a summer lodge amid 
the wild is mine,— 

"Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, ’tis mantled 
by the vine; 

The wild plum sheds its yellow fruit from fra- 
grant thickets nigh, 

And flowery prairies from the door stretch till 
they meet the sky. 


218 BRYANT’S POEMS 


‘*There in the boughs that hide the roof the 
mock-bird sits and sings, 

And there the hang-bird’s brood within its 
little hammock swings$ 

A pebbly brook, where rustling winds among 
the hopples sweep, 

Shall lull thee till the morning sun looks in 
upon thy sleep.’’ 


Away, into the forest depths by pleasant paths 
they go, 

He with his rifle on his arm, the lady with her 
bow, 

Where cornels arch their cool dark boughs o’er 
beds of wintergreen, 

And never at his father’s door again was Albert 
seen. 


That night upon the woods came down a furi- 
ous hurricane, 

With howl of winds and roar of streams, and 
beating of the rain; 

The mighty thunder broke and drowned the 
noises in its crash; 

The old trees seemed to fight like fiends 
beneath the lightning-flash. 


Next day, within a mossy glen, ’mid moulder- 
ing trunks were found , 

The fragments of a human form upon the 
bloody ground; 

With bones from which the flesh was torn, and 
locks of glossy hair; 

They laid them in the place of graves, yet wist 
not whose they were. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 219 


And whether famished evening wolves had 
mangled Albert so, 

Or that strange dame so gay and fair were 
some mysterious foe, 

Or whether to that forest en a beyond the 
mountains blue, 

He went to dwell with her, the friends who 
mourned him never knew. 


“EARTH’S CHILDREN CLEAVE TO 
EARTH”’ 


Earth’s children cleave to Earth—her frail 
Decaying children dread decay. 
Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale 
And lessens in the morning ray; 
Look, how, by mountain rivulet, 
It lingers as it upward creeps, 
And clings to fern and copsewood set 
Along the green and dewy steeps: 
Clings to the flowery kalmia, clings 
To precipices fringed with grass, 
Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings, 
And bowers of fragrant sassafras. 
Yet all in vain—it passes still 
From hold to hold; it cannot stay, 
And in the very beams that fill 
The world with glory, wastes away, 
Till, parting from the mountain’s brow, 
It vanishes from human eye, 
And that which sprung of earth is now 
A portion of the glorious sky. 


220 _  BRYANT’S POEMS 


ae 


THE HUNTER’S VISION 


Upon a rock that, high and sheer, 
Rose from the mountain’s breast, 
A weary hunter of the deer 
Had set him down to rest, 
And bared to the soft summer air 
His hot red brow and sweaty hair. 


All dim in haze the mountains lay, 
With dimmer vales between; 

And rivers glimmered on their way, 
By forests faintly seen; 

While ever rose a murmuring sound, 

From brooks below and bees around. 


He listened, till he seemed to hear 
A strain, so soft and low, 

That whether in the mind or ear 
The listener scarce might know. 
With such a tone, so sweet, so mild, 
The watching mother lulls her child. 


‘Thou weary huntsman,’’ thus it said, 
‘*“Thou faint with toil and heat, 

The pleasant land of rest is spread 
Before thy very feet, 

And those whom thou wouldst gladly see 

Are waiting tnere to welcome thee.” 


BRYANT’S POEMS 221 


He looked, and ’twixt the earth and sky. 
Amid the noontide haze, 

A shadowy region met his eye, 
And grew beneath his gaze, 

As if the vapors of the air 

. Had gathered into shapes so fair. 


Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers 
Showed bright on rocky bank, 

And fountains welled beneath the bowers, 
Where deer and pheasant drank. 

He saw the glittering streams, he heard 

‘The rustling bough and twittering bird. 


And friends, the dead, in boyhood dear, 
There lived and walked again, 

And there was one who many a year 
Within her grave had lain, 

A fair young girl, the hamlet’s pride— 

His heart was breaking when she died: 


Bounding, as was her wont, she came 
Right toward his resting-place, 

And stretched her hand and called his name 
With that sweet smiling face. 

Forward with fixed and eager eyes, 

The hunter leaned, in act to rise. 


Forward he leaned, and headlong down 
-Plunged from the craggy wall; 

He saw the rocks, steep, stern and brown, 
An instant, in his fall; : 

A frightful instant—and no more, 

The dream and life at once were o’er. 


te 


BRYANT’S POEMS 


A PRESENTIMENT 


‘‘Oh, father, let us hence—for hark, 
A fearful murmur shakes the air; 

The clouds are coming swift and dark ;— 
What horrid shapes they wear! 

A winged giant sails the sky; 

Oh, father, father, let us fly!’’ 


‘*Hush, child; it is a grateful sound, 
That beating of the summer shower; 
Here, where the boughs hang close around, 
We'll pass a pleasant hour, 
Till the fresh wind, that brings the rain, 
Has swept the broad heaven clear again.”’ 


‘‘Nay, father, let us haste—for see, 
That horrid thing with horned brow,— 
His wings o’erhang this very tree, 
He scowls upon us now; 
His huge black arm is lifted high; 
Oh, father, father, let us fly!’’ 


‘“Hush, child;’’ but, as the father spoke, 
Downward the livid firebolt came, 
Close to his ear the thunder broke, 
And, blasted by the flame, 
The child lay dead; while dark and still. 
Swept the grim cloud along the hill. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 223 


THE CHILD’S FUNERAL 


Fair is thy site, Sorrento, green thy shore, 
Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue 
skies; 
The sea, whose borderers ruled the world of 
yore, 
As clear and bluer still before thee lies. 


Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire, 
Outgushing, drowned the cities on his steeps; 
And murmuring Naples, spire o’ertopping 
spire ; 
Sits on the slope beyond where Virgil sleeps. 


Here doth the earth, with flowers of every hue, 
Heap her green breast when April suns are 
bright, 
Flowers of the morning-red, or ocean-blue, 
Or like the mountain frost of silvery white. 


Currents of fragrance, from the orange tree, 
And sward of violets, breathing to and fro, 

Mingle, and, wandering out upon the sea, 
Refresh the idle boatman where they blow. 


Yet even here, as under harsher climes, 
Tears for the loved and early lost are shed; 
That soft air saddens with the funeral chimes; 
Those shining flowers are gathered for the 
dead. 


224 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Here once a child, a smiling playful one, 

All the day long caressing and caressed, 
Died when its little tongue had just begun 

To lisp the names of those it loved the best. 


The father strove his struggling grief to quell, 
The mother wept as mothers use to weep, 
Two little sisters wearied them to tell 
When their dear Carlo would awake from 
sleep, *; | 


Within an inner room his couch they spread, 
His funeral couch; with mingled grief and 
love, 
They laid a crown of roses on his head, 
And murmured, ‘‘Brighter is his crown 
above.’ 


They scattered round him, on the snowy sheet, 
Laburnum’s strings of sunny-colored gems, 
Sad hyacinths, and violets dim and sweet, 
And orange blossoms on their dark green 
stems. 


And now the hour is coine; the priest is there; 
Torches are lit and bells are tolled; they go, - 

With solemn rites of blessing and of prayer, 
To lay the little one in earth below. 


The door is opened; hark! that quick glad cry; 
Carlo has waked, has waked, and is at play! 
The little sisters laugh and leap, and try 
To climb the bed on which the infant lay 


BRYANT S POEMS 225 


And there he sits alive, and gayly shakes 
In his full hands, the blossoms red and white, 
And smiles with winking eyes, like one who 
wakes 
From long deep slumbers at the morning 
light. 


THE DEATH OF SCHILLER 


Tis said, when Schiller’s death drew nigh, 
The wish possessed his mighty mind, 

To wander forth wherever lie 
The homes and haunts of human-kind. 


Then strayed the poet, in his dreams, 
By Rome and Egypt’s ancient graves; 
Went up the New World’s forest-streams, 
Stood in the Hindoo’s temple-caves; 


Walked with the Pawnee, fierce and stark, 
The sallow Tartar, midst his herds, 

The peering Chinese, and the dark 
False Malay uttering gentle words. 


How could he rest? even then he trod 
The threshold of the world unknown; 
Already, from the seat of God, 
A ray upon his garments shone ;— 


Shone and awoke the strong desire 

For love and knowledge reached not here 
Till, freed by death, his soul of fire 

Sprang to a fairer, ampler sphere, 
15 Bryant’s 


226 


[IN 


BRYANT’S POEMS 


MEMORY OF WILLIAM LEGGETT 


The earth may ring, from shore to shore, 
With echoes of a glorious name, | 
But he, whose loss our tears deplore, 
Has left behind him more than fame. 


For when the death-frost came to lie 
On Leggett’s warm and mighty heart 

And quench his bold and friendly eye, 
His spirit did not all depart. 


The words of fire that from his pen 
Were flung upon the fervid page, 

Still move, still shake the hearts of men. 
Amid a cold and coward age. 


His love of truth, too warm, too strong 
For Hope or Fear to chain or chill, 
His hate of tyranny and wrong, 
Burn in the breasts he kindled still. 


—_—_—_——. 


THE PAINTED CUP 


The fresh savannas of the Sangamon 
Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass 
Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts 
Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire; 
The wanderers of prairie know them well, 
And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 227 


Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not 
That these bright chalices were tinted thus 
To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet 
On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers, 
And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up, 
Amid this fresh and virgin solitude, 
The faded fancies of an elder world: 
But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths 
Of June, and glistening flies, and humming- 
birds, 
To drink from, when on all these boundless 
lawns 
The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind 
O’erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour 
A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant, 
To swell the reddening fruit that even now 
Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny 
slope. 


But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well— 
Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers, 
Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves, 
Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone— 
Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown 
And ruddy with the sunshine; let him come 
On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake, 
And patt with little hands the spiky grass; 
And touching, with his cherry lips, the edge 
Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered 

dew. 


228 BRYANT’S POEMS 


A DREAM 


1 had a dream—a strange, wild dream— 
Said a dear voice at early light; 

And even yet its shadows seem 
To linger in my waking sight. 


Earth, green with spring, and fresh with dew, 
And bright with morn, before me stood; 
And airs just wakened softly blew 
On the young blossoms of the wood. 


Birds sang within the sprouting shade, 
Bees hummed amid the whispering grass, 
And children prattled as they played 7 
Beside the rivulet’s dimpling grass. 


Fast climbed the sun; the flowers were flown; 
There played no children in the glen; 

For some were gone, and some were grown 
To blooming dames and bearded men. 


’Twas noon, ’twas summer; I beheld 
Woods darkening in the flush of day, 

And that bright rivulet spread and swelled, 
A mighty stream, with creek and bay. 


And here was love, and there was strife, 
And mirthful shouts, and wrathful cries, 

And strong men, struggling as for life, 
With knotted limbs and angry eyes. 


BRYANT S POEMS 229 


Now stooped the sun; the shades grew thin; 
The rustling paths were piled with leaves; 

And sunburnt groups were gathering in, 
From the shorn field, its fruits and sheaves. 


The river heaved with sullen sounds; 
The chilly wind was sad with moans; 
Black hearses passed, and burial-grounds 
Grew thick with monumental stones. 


Still waned the day; the wind that chased 
The jagged clouds blew chiller yet; 

The woods were stripped, the fields were waste; 
The wintry sun was near its set. 


And of the young, and strong, and fair, 
A lonely remnant, gray and weak, 
Lingered, and shivered to:the air 
Of that bleak shore and water bleak. 


Ah! age is drear, and death is cold! 
I turned to thee, for thou wert near, 
And saw thee withered, bowed, and old, 
And woke all faint with sudden fear. 


’*Twas thus I heard the dreamer say, 
And bade her clear her clouded brow; 

‘**For thou and I, since childhood’s day, 
Have walked in such a dream till now. 


‘*Watch we in calmness, as they rise, 
The changes of that rapid dream, 

And note its lessons, till our eyes 
Shall open in the morning beam.”’’ 


200 BRYANT’S POEMS 


THE MAIDEN’S SORROW 


Seven long years has the desert rain 
Dropped on the clods that hide thy face; 
Seven long years of sorrow and pain 
I have thought of thy burial-place. 


Thought of thy fate in the distant west, 
Dying with none that loved thee near; 

They who flung the earth on thy breast 
Turned from the spot without a tear. 


There, I think, on that lonely grave, 
Violets spring in the soft May shower, 

There, in the summer breezes, wave 
Crimson phlox and moccasin flower. 


There the turtles alight, and there 
Feeds with her fawn the timid doe; 
There, when the winter woods are bare, 

Walks the wolf on the crackling snow. 


Soon wilt thou wipe my tears away; 
All my task upon earth is done; 
My poor father, old and gray, 
Slumbers beneath the churchyard stone. 


In the dreams of my lonely bed, 
Ever thy form before me seems; 
All night long I talk with the dead, 

All day long I think of my dreams. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 231 


This deep wound that bleeds and aches, 
This long pain, a sleepless pain— 
When the Father my spirit takes, 
I shall feel it no more again. 





fab RETURN OF YOUTH 


My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, 
For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight; 
Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time 
Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with 
light,— 
Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was 
strong, 
And quick the thought that moved Ue tongue 
to speak, 
And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong 
Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek. 


Thou lookest forward on the coming days, 
shuddering to feel their shadow o’er thee 
creep; , 
A path, thick-set with changes sat decays, 
Slopes downward to the place ae common 
sleep; 
And they who walked with thee in life’ s first 
stage, 
Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near, 
Thou seest the sad companions of thy age— 
Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear. 


Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy ees is 
gone, 
Nor deem that glorious season e’er could die 


232 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn, 
Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky; 
Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and’ 
hides, 
Till the slow stars bring back her dawning 
hour; 
Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumber: 
ing bides 
Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower. 


There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt 
stand 
On his bright morning hills, with smiles 
more sweet 
Than when at first he took thee by the hand, 
Through the fair earth to lead thy tender 
feet. 
He shall bring back, but brighter, broader stil}, 
Life’s early glory to thine eyes again, 
Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and 
fill 
Thy leaping heart with warmer love than 
then. 


Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here, 
Of mountains where immortal morn prevails? 
Comes there not, through the silence, to thine 
ear 
A gentle rustling of the morning gales; 
A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore, 
Of streams, that water banks for ever fair. 
And voices of the loved ones gone before, 
More musical in that celestial air? 


BRYANT’S POEMS 233 


NOON 
FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM 


"Tis noon. At noon the Hebrew bowed the 
knee 
And worshipped, while the husbandman with- 
drew 
From the scorched field, and the wayfaring man 
Grew faint, and turned aside by bubbling fount, 
Or rested in the shadow of the palm. 


_I, too, amid the overflow of day, 

Behold the power which wields and cherishes 

The frame of Nature. From this brow of rock 

That overlooks the Hudson’s western marge, 

I gaze upon the long array of groves, 

The piles and gulfs of verdure drinking in 

The grateful heats. They love the fiery sun; 

Their broadening leaves grow glossier, and 
their sprays 

Climb as he looks upon them. In the midst, 

The swelling river, into his green gulfs, 

Unshadowed save by passing sails above, 

Takes the redundant glory, and enjoys 

The summer in his chilly bed. Coy flowers, 

That would not open in the early light, 

Push back their plaited sheaths. The rivulet’s 
pool, 

That darkly quivered all the morning long 


234 BRYANT’S POEMS 


In the cool shade, now glimmers in the sun; 
And o’er its surface shoots, and shoots again, 
The glittering dragon-fly, and deep within 
Run the brown water-beetles to and fro. 


A silence, the brief sabbath of an hour, 
Reigns o’er the fields; the laborer sits within 
His dwelling; he has left his steers awhile, 
Unyoked, to bite the herbage, and his dog 
Sleeps stretched beside the door-stone in the 

shade. 
Now the gray marmot, with uplifted paws, 
No more sits listening by his den, but steals 
Abroad, in safety, to the clover-field, 
And crops its juicy blossoms. All the while 
A ceaseless murmur from the populous town 
Swells o’er these solitudes: a mingled sound 
Of jarring wheels, and iron hoofs that clash 
Upon the stony ways, and hammer-clang, 
And creak of engines lifting ponderous bulks, 
And calls and cries, and tread of eager feet, 
Innumerable, hurrying to and fro. 
Noon, in that mighty mart of nations, brings 
No pause to toil and care. With early day 
Began the tumult, and shall only cease 
When midnight, hushing one by one the souads 
Of bustle, gathers the tired brood to rest. 


Thus, in this feverish time, when love of gain 
And luxury possess the hearts of men, 
Thus is it with the noon of human life. 
We, in our fervid manhood, in our strength 
Of reason, we, with hurry, noise, and care, 
Plan, toil, and strive, and pause not to refresh 


BRYANT’S POEMS 238 


Our spirits with the calm and beautiful 

Of God’s harmonious universe, that won 
Our youthful wonder; pause not to inquire 
Why we are here; and what the reverence 
Man owes to man, and what the mystery 
That links us to the greater world, beside 
Whose borders we but hover for a space. 


——E 


THE CROWDED STREET 


Let me move slowly through the street, 
Filled with an ever-shifting train, 

Amid the sound of steps that beat 
The murmuring walks like autumn rain. 


How fast the flitting figures come! 
The mild,-the fierce, the stony face; 

some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some 
Where secret tears have left their trace. 


They pass—to toil, to strife, to rest; 
To halls in which the feast is spread; 

To chambers where the funeral guest 
In silence sits beside the dead. 


And some to happy homes repair, 

Where children, pressing cheek to cheek 
With mute caresses shall declare 

The tenderness they cannot speak. 


And some, who walk in calmness here, 
Shall shudder as they reach the door 
Where one who made their dwelling dear, 

Its flower, its light. is seen no more. 


236 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, 
And dreams of greatness in thine eye! 
Go’st thou to build an early name, 
Or early in the task to die? 


Keen son of trade, with eager brow! 
Who is now fluttering in thy snare? 

Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, 
Or melt the glittering spires in air? 


Who of this crowd to-night shall tread 
The dance till daylight gleams again? 

Who sorrow o’er the untimely dead? 
Who writhe in throes of mortal pain? 


Some, famine-struck, shall think how long 
The cold dark hours, how slow the light! 

And some, who flaunt amid the throng, 
Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. 


Each, where his tasks or pleasures call, 
They pass, and heed each other not; 

There is who heeds, who holds them all, 
In his large love and boundless thought. 


These struggling tides of life that seem 
In wayward, aimless course to tend, 
Are eddies of the mighty stream 
That rolls to its appointed end. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 237. 


THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER 


It was a hundred years ago, 
When, by the woodland ways, 

The traveler saw the wild deer drink, 
Or crop the birchen sprays. 


Beneath a hill, whose rocky side 
O’erbrowed a grassy mead, 

And fenced a cottage from the wind, 
A deer was wont to feed. 


She only came when on the cliffs 
The evening moonlight lay, 

And no man knew the secret haunts 
In which she walked by day. 


White were her feet, her forehead showed 
A spot of silvery white, 

That seemed to glimmer like a star 
In autumn’s hazy night. 


And here, when sang the whippoorwill 
She cropped the sprouting leaves, 

And here her rustling steps were heard 
On still October eves. 


But when the broad midsummer moon 
Rose o’er that grassy lawn, 

Beside the silver-footed deer 
There grazed a spotted fawn. 


238 


BRYANT’S POEMS 


The cottage dame forbade her son 
To aim the rifle here; 

‘*It were a sin,’’ she said, ‘‘to harm 
Or fright that friendly deer. 


‘“This spot has been my pleasant home 
Ten peaceful years and more; 

And ever when the moonlight shines, 
She feeds before our door. 


‘*The red men say that here she walked 
A thousand moons ago; 

They never raise the war-whoop here, 
And never twang the bow. 


‘*T love to watch her as she feeds, 
And think that all is well, 

While such a gentle creature haunts 
The place in which we dwell.’’ 


The youth obeyed, and sought for game 
In forests far away, 

Where, deep in silence and in moss, 
The ancient woodland lay. 


But once, in autumn’s golden time, 
He ranged the wild in vain, 

Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer, 
And wandered home again. 


The crescent moon and crimson eve 
Shone with a mingling lignt; 

The deer, upon the grassy mead, 
Was feeding full in sight. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 239 


He raised the rifle to his eye, 
And from the cliffs around 

A sudden echo, shrill and sharp, 
Gave back its deadly sound. 


Away into the neighboring wood 
The startled creature flew, 

And crimson drops at morning lay 
Amid the glimmering dew. 


Next evening shone the waxing moon 
As sweetly as before; 

The deer upon grassy mead 
Was seen again no more. 


But, ere that crescent moon was old, 
By night the red men came, 

And burnt the cottage to the ground, 
And slew the youth and dame. 


Now woods have overgrown the mead 
And hid the cliffs from sight; 

There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon, 
And prowls the fox at night. 





THE WANING MOON 


I’ve watched too late: the morn is near; 


One look at God’s broad silent sky! 
Oh, hopes and wishes vainly dear, 
How in your very strength ye die! 


Even while your glow is on the cheek, 
And scarce the high pursuit begun, 


The heart grows faint, the hand grows weak, 


The task of life is left undone. 


240 BRYANT’S POEMS 


See where, upon the horizon’s brim, 
Lies the still cloud in gloomy bars; 

The waning moon, all pale and dim 
Goes up amid the eternal stars. 


Late, in a flood of tender light, 

She floated through the ethereal blue, 
A softer sun, that shone all night 

Upon the gathering beads of dew. 


And still thou wanest, pallid moon! 
The encroaching shadow grows apace; 

Heaven’s everlasting watchers soon 
Shall see thee blotted from thy place. 


Oh, Night’s dethroned and crownless queen! 
Well may thy sad, expiring ray 

Be shed on those whose eyes have seen 
Hope’s glorious visions fade away. 


Shine thou for forms that once were bright, 
For sages in the mind’s eclipse, 

For those whose words were spells of might, 
But falter now on stammering lips! 


In thy decaying beam there lies 
Full many a grave, on hill and plain, 
Of those who closed their dying eyes 
In grief that they had lived in vain. 


Another night, and thou among 

The spheres of heaven shalt cease to shine, 
All rayless in the glittering throng 

Whose luster late was quenched in thine. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 241 


Yet soon a new and tender light 

From out thy darkened orb shall beam, 
And broaden till it shines all night 

On glistening dew and glimmering stream. 





THE UNKNOWN WAY 


A burning sky is o’er me, 

The sands beneath me glow, 
_ As onward, onward, wearily, 
In the sultry noon I go. 


From the dusty path there opens, 
Eastward, an unknown way; 

Above its windings, pleasantly, 
The woodland branches play. 


A silvery brook comes stealing 
From the shadow of its trees, 

Where slender herbs of the forest stoop 
Before the entering breeze. 


Along those pleasant windings 
I would my journey lay, 

Where the shade is cool and the dew of night 
Is not yet dried away. 


Path of the flowery woodland! 
Oh whither dost thou lead, 
Wandering by grassy orchard grounds 
Or by the open mead? 


Goest thou by nestling cottage? 
Goest thou by stately hall, 

Where the broad elm droops, a leafy dome. 
And woodbines flaunt on the wall? 

16 Byrant’s 


242 BRYANT’S POEMS 


By steeps where children gather 
Flowers of the yet fresh year? 
By lonely walks where lovers stray 

Till the tender stars appear? 


Or haply dost thou linger 
On barren plains and bare, 

Or clamber the bald mountain-side, 
Into the thinner air? 


Where they who journey upward 
Walk in a weary track, 

And oft upon the shady vale 
With longing eyes look back? 


I hear.asolemn murmur, 
Aud, listening to the sound, 

I know the voice of the mighty sea, 
Beating his pebbly bound. 


Dost thou, oh path of the woodland! 
End where those waters roar, 

Like human life, on a trackless beach, 
With a boundless Sea before? 


“OH MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE” 


Oh mother of a mighty race, 

Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! 

The elder dames, thy haughty peers, 

Admire and hate thy blooming years. 
With words of shame 

And taunts of scorn they join thy name. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 243 


For on thy cheeks the glow is spread 

That tints thy morning hills with red; 

They step—the wild deer’s rustling feet, 

Within thy woods, are not more fleet; 
Thy hopeful eye 

Is bright as thine own sunny sky. 


Aye, let them rail—those haughty ones, 

While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. 

They do not know how loved thou art, 

How many a fond and fearless heart 
Would rise to throw 

Its life between thee and the foe. 


They know not, in their hate and pride, 

What virtues with thy children bide; 

How true, how good, thy graceful maids 

Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades; 
* What generous men 

Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen. 


What cordial welcomes greet the guest 

By thy lone rivers of the west, 

How faith is kept, and truth revered, 

And man is loved, and God is feared, 
In woodland homes, 

And where the ocean-border foams. 


There’s freedom at thy gates, and rest 

For Earth’s down-trodden and opprest, 

A shelter for the hunted head, 

For the starved laborer toil and bread. 
Power, at thy bounds, 

Stops and calls back his baffled hounds. 


244 BRYANT’S POEMS 


Oh fair young mother! on thy brow 

Shall sit a nobler grace than now, 

Deep in the brightness of thy skies © 

The thronging years in glory rise, 
And, as they fleet, 

Drop strength and riches at thy feet. 


Thine eye, with every coming hour, 

Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower; 

And when thy sisters, elder born, 

Would brand thy name with words of scorn, 
Before thine eye, 

Upon their lips the taunt shall die. 


THE LAND OF DREAMS 


A mighty realm is the Land of Dreams, 
With steeps that hang in the twilight sky, 

And weltering oceans and trailing streams, 
That gleam where the dusky valleys le. 


But over its shadowy border flow 
Sweet rays from the world of endless morn, 
And the nearer mountains catch the glow, 
And flowers in the nearer fields are born. 


The souls of the happy dead repair, 
From their bowers of light, to that bordering 
land, 
And walk in the fainter glory there, 
With the souls of the living hand in hand 


BRYANT’S POEMS 245 


One calm sweet smile, in that shadowy sphere, 
From eyes that open on earth no more— 

One warning word from a voice once dear— 
How they rise in the memory o’er and o’er! 


Far off from those hills that shine with day, 
And fields that bloom in the heavenly gales, 

The Land of Dreams goes stretching away 
To dimmer mountains and darker vales. 


There lie the chambers of guilty delight; 
There walk the specters of guilty fear; 

And soft low voices, that float through the night, 
Are whispering sin in the helpless ear. 


Dear maid, in thy girlhood’s opening flower, 
Scarce weaned from the love of childish 
play! 
The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower 
That freshens the early blooms of May! 


Thine eyes are closed, and over thy brow 
Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams, 
And J know, by thy moving lips, that now 
Thy spirit strays in the Land of Dreams. 


Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet! 
O keep where that beam of Paradise falls, 
And only wander where thou may’st meet 
The blessed ones from its shining walls. 


So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams, 
With love and peace to this world of strife, 

And the light that over that border streams 
Shall lie on the path of thy daily life. 


246 BRYANT’S POEMS 


THE BURIAL OF LOVE 


Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day, 
Sat where a river rolled away, 

With calm sad brows and raven hair, 
And one was pale and both were fair. 


Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers unblown ; 
Bring forest blooms of name unknown; 

Bring budding sprays from wood and wild, 

To strew the bier of Love, the child. 


Close softly, fondly, while ye weep, 

His eyes, that death may seem like sleep, 
And fold his hands in sign of rest, 

His waxen hands, across his breast. 


And make his grave where violets hide, 
Where star-flowers strew the rivulet’s side, 
And blue-birds, in the misty spring, 

Of cloudless skies and summer sing. 


Place near him, as ye lay him low, 
His idle shafts, his loosened bow, 
The silken fillet that around 

His waggish eyes in sport he wound. 


BRYANT’S POEMS 247 


But we shall mourn him long, and miss 

His ready smile, his ready kiss, 

The patter of his little feet, 

Sweet frowns and stammered phrases sweet; 


And graver looks, serene and high, 

A light of heaven in that young eye, 

All these shall haunt us till the heart 
Shall ache and ache—and tears will start. 


The bow, the band shall fall to dust, 

The shining arrows waste with rust, 

And all of Love that earth can claim, 
Be but a memory and a name. 


Not thus his nobler part shall dwell, 

A prisoner in this narrow cell; 

But he whom now we hide from men 
In the dark ground, shall live again. 


Shall break these clods, a form of light, 
With nobler mien and purer sight, 

And in the eternal glory stand, 

Highest and nearest God’s right hand. 





“THE MAY-SUN SHEDS AN AMBER 
jel TG id as 


The May-sun sheds an amber light 
On new-leaved woods and lawns between; 
But she who, with a smile more bright, 
Welcomed and watched the springing green, 
Is in her grave, 
Low in her grave. 


248 BRYANT’S POEMS 


The fair white blossoms of the wood 
In groups beside the pathway stand; 
But one, the gentle and the good, 
Who cropped them with a fairer hand, 
Is in her grave, 
Low in her grave. 


Upon the woodland’s morning airs 
The small birds’ mingled notes are flung; 
But she, whose voice, more sweet than theirs, 
Once bade me listen, while they sung, 
Is in her grave, 
Low in her grave. 


That music of the early year 
Brings tears of anguish to my eyes; 
My heart aches when the flowers appear; 
For then I think of her who lies 
Within her grave, 
Low in her grave. 


THE VOICE OF AUTUMN 


There comes, from yonder height, 
A soft repining sound, 
Where forest leaves are bright 
And fall, like flakes of light, 
To the ground. 


It is the autumn breeze, 
That, lightly floating on, 
Just skims the weedy leas, 
Just stirs the glowing trees, 
And is gone, 


BRYANT’S POEMS 249 


He moans by sedgy brook, 
And visits, with a sigh, 
The last pale flowers that look, 
From out their sunny nook, 
At the sky. 


O’er shouting children flies 

That light October wind, 
And, kissing cheeks and eyes, 

He leaves their merry cries 
Far behind. 


And wanders on to make 
That soft uneasy sound 
By distant wood and lake, 
Where distant fountains break 
From the ground. 


No bower where maidens dwell 
Can win amoment’s stay, © 
Nor fair untrodden dell; 
He sweeps the upland swell, 
And away. 


Mourn’st thou thy homeless state? 
Oh soft, repining wind! 
That early seek’st and late 
The rest it is thy fate 
Not to find. 


Not on the mountain’s breast, 
Not on the ocean’s shore, 
In all the East and West:— 
The wind that stops to rest 
Is no more. 


250 BRYANT’S POEMS 


By valleys, woods, and springs, 
No wonder thou shouldst grieve 
For all the glorious things 
Thou touchest with thy wings 
And must leave. 


THE CONQUEROR’S GRAVE 


Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies, 
And yet the monument proclaims it not, 
Nor round the sleeper’s name hath chisel 
wrought 
The emblems of a fame that never dies, 
Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf, 
Twined with the laurel’s fair, imperial leaf. 
A simple name alone, 
To the great world unknown, 
Is graven here, and wild flowers, rising round, 
Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground, 
Lean lovingly against the humble stone. 


Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart 
No man of iron mould and bloody hands, 
Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands 
The passions that consumed his restless heart; 
But one of tender spirit and delicate frame 
Gentlest in mien and mind, 
Of gentle womankind, 
Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame; 
One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made 
Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in 
May, 
Yet, at the thought of others’ pain, a shade 
Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away. 


BRYANT’S POEMS, ,,, , , O51 | 


Nor deem that, when the hand that moulders / 
here 
Was raised in menace, realms were chilled 
with fear, 
And armies mustered at the sign, as when 
Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East,— 
Gray captains leading bands of veteran men 
And fiery youths to be the vulture’s feast. 
Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave 
The victory to her who fills this grave; 
Alone her task was wrought, 
Alone the battle fought; 
Through that long strife her constant hope 
was staid 
On God alone, nor looked for other aid. 


She met the hosts of sorrow with a look 
That altered not beneath the frown they 


wore, 
And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and 

took, 
Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no 

more. 


Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath, 
And calmly broke in twain 
The fiery shafts of pain, 

And rent the nets of passion from her path. 
By that victorious hand despair was slain. 
With love she vanquished hate and overcame 

Evil with good, in her Great Master’s name. 


Her glory is not of this shadowy state, 
Glory that with the fleeting season dies; 
But when she entered at the sapphire gate 


252, BRYANT’S POEMS 


What joy was radiant in celestial eyes! 
How heaven’s bright depths with sounding 
welcomes rung, 
And flowers of heaven by shining hands were 
flung! 
And He who, long before, 
Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, 
The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet, 
Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat; 
He who returning, glorious, from the grave, 
Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouch- 
ing slave. 


See, as I linger here, the sun grows low; 
Cool airs are murmuring that the night is 
near. 
Oh gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go 
Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear. 
Brief is the time, I know, 
The warfare scarce begun; 
Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won. 
Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened 
thee; 
The victors’ names are yet too few to fill 
Heaven’s mighty roll; the glorious armory, 
That ministered to thee, is open still. 


We are the Sole publishers of Ella Wheeler Wilcor’s|Books | 


The Poetical and Prose Works of 


FILA WHEELER WILCOX 


Mrs. Wilcox’s writings have been the inspiration of many young 
men and women. Her hopeful, practical, masterful views of life 
give the reader new courage in the very reading and are a wholesome 
spur to flagging effort. Words of truth so vital that they live in the 
reader’s memory and cause him to think—to his own betterment and 
the lasting improvement of his own work in the world, in whatever 
line it lies—flow from this talented woman’s pen. 


MAURINE 


Is a love story told in exquisite verse. ‘An ideal poem about 
as trueand lovable a woman as ever poet created.’ It has 
repeatedly been compared with Owen Meredith's Luczde. In 
point of human interest it excels that noted story. 

‘Maurine’’ is issued in an edition de luxe, where the more 
important incidents of the story are portrayed by means of 
photographic studies from life. 


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POEMS OF POWER. 


New and revised edition. This beautiful volume contains 
more than one hundred new poems, displaying this popular poet’s 
well- known taste, cultivation, and originality. ‘The author 
says: ‘The final ‘word in the title of the volume refers to the 
Divine power in every human being, the recognition of which 
is the secret of all successand happiness. Itis this idea which 
many of the verses endeavor to inculcate and to illustrate. 

‘The lines of Mrs. Wilcox, show both sweetness “and 
strength.’’-Chicago American. ‘Ella Wheeler Wilcox has a 
strong grip upon ithe affections of thousands all over the 
world. Her productions are read to-day just as eagerly as 
they were when her fame was new, no other divinity having 
yet risen to take her place.’’—Chicazo Record-Herald. 


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THREE WOMEN. A story IN VERSE. 


“THREE WOMEN is the best thing I have ever done."'—£l/a 
Wheeler Wilcox. 
This marvelous dramatic poem will compel instant praise 
hecause it touches every note in the scale of human emotion, 
is intensely interesting, and will be read with sincere relish 
aud admiration. 
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POEMS OF PLEASURE. 


Many of the best poetic creations of Ella Wheeler Wilcox 
are to be found in this charming collection. Besides many 
admirable specimens of romantic verse, there are several 
poems of rare beauty, dealing with every-day topics. Every 
line of these poems pulsates with life and throbs with emotion. 


“Mrs. Wilcox is an artist with a touch that reminds one 
of Byron's impassionate strains.’’—Paris Register. 


‘Everything that she writes has the mark of her unique, 
powerful personality impressed upon it, and this volume will 
not be a disappointment to those acquainted with her.”—Wew 
York Press. 


“The book is replete with good things and, though a book 
of fewer than two hundred pages, it is worth whole reams of 
the sentimentalism flourishing under the misnomer of liter- 
ature.’’— Western Bookseller. : 


_ ‘Mrs, Wilcox takes her raptures with a full heart, revel- 

ing in blisses and draining sorrows deeply; not morbidly but 

hopefully. Skeptic as she is of all formal creeds, she does 

not become cynical or pessimistic, but makes a glad religion 

vas of evolution and human fellowship.’—Mew York Daily 
ews, 


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POEMS OF PASSION, 


mtra Wheeler Wilcox is known as the greatest living poet 
of passion. To her the human heart seems tu have revealed 
its mysteries, for she has the power to picture love in all its 
-noods and variations as no other has done since Byron. 


“Only a woman of genius could produce such a remark- 
able work.’’—Jllustrated London News. 


Beside many others, there are some fifty poems which 
treat entirely of that emotion which has been denominated 
‘the grand passion’’—love. _Among the most popular poems 
in the book are Delilah, Ad Finem, Conversion, and Communism. 
These vibrant poems have attained a reputation that is above 
and beyond criticism. 


“Her name is a household word. Her great power lies in 
depicting human emotions; and in handling that grandest of 
all passions—love, she wields the pen of a master.’’—Saturday 
Pecord, 

Many thousands of the book have been issued in the plain 
edition. The author’s numerous admirers called for a de luxe 
BODES IUE and in the New Illustrated Edition the demand 
ismet bya 


BEAUTIFULLY PRODUCED AND CHARMINGLY EMBELLISHED EDITION 


certain to satisfy the most fastidious taste. Inits newt form, 
the book is sure to find additional favor. 


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EVERY-DAY THOUGHTS—lIn Prose 
and Verse. 


Her latest, largest and greatest prose work. This brilliant 

work consists of a series of forceful, logical and fascinating 
“talks” to eyery member of the household, in which the 
author fearlessly, but with delicacy, discusses every-day sub- 
jects, and directs attention to those evils which menace the 
peace and safety of the home. *‘Every-day Thoughts’’ is not a 
mere book of advice, neither does it attempt'to preach, but it 
contains more good counsel and wholesome moral lessons 
than are to be found in the average sermon. 
_ “These thoughts, lofty and uplifting, are stated with viril- 
ity, both in prose and verse. The noble sentiments expressed 
in this volume will widen the circle of her admirers.’’—oches- 
ter Times. 

“Few people are so good as not to be made better by a stu- 
dious perusal of this useful and interesting book, which is, in 
brief, a short and vigorous dissertation on moral conduct and the 
springs of right living. Mrs. Wilcox’s latest publicatien is a 
wortby addition to the best works of moral philosophy and her 
treatise deserves wide reading.”’’—Wew York Daily News. 


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KINGDOM OF LOVE, AND OTHER POEMS. 


2 A magnificent collection of poems suitable for recitations and read- 
ings, true to the very best there is in human nature. 


In the preface to this collection, the author says: “I am 
constantly urged by readers and impersonators to furnish 
them with verses for recitation. In response to this ever- 
increasing demand, I haVe selected for this volume the poems 
which seem suitable for such a purpose. In making my col- 
lection of them. I have been obliged to use, not those which 
are among my best efforts in a literary or artistic sense, but 
pavet eich contain the best dramatic possibilities for profes- 
sionals. 

‘Her fame has reached all parts of the world, and her pop- 
ularity seems to grow with each succeeding year.’’—American 
Bookseller. 


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AN AMBITIOUS MAN—Prose. 


A realistic novel of the modern school of fiction. “ithough 
the plot borders on the sensational, the motive of the story is 
a good one. It teaches that hereditary tendencies can be 
overcome; that one can conquer passion and impulse by the 
use of the divine inheritance of Will, and compel public re- 
spect by lofty ideals; in other words. that one may rise on the 
“‘stepping-stones of a dead self to higher things.”’ Mrs. Wilcox 
is a successful novel-writer as well as apoet, and this story is 
another evidence of her wide range of thought. “In ‘An 
Ambitious Man’ the central figure is a woman, who becomes 
chastened.through suffering and purified through sin.”’ f 

“Vivid realism stands forth from every page of this fasci- 
nating and interesting book.’’—£very Day. 


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AN ERRING WOMAN’S LOVE. 


, , There is always a fascination in Mrs. Wilcox’s verse, bu 
in these beautiful examples of her genius she shows a wonder- 
ful knowledge of the human heart. 

“Ella Wheeler Wilcox has impressed many thousands of 
people with the extreme beauty of her philosophy and the 
exceeding usefulness of her point of view.” —Boston Globe. 

Mrs. Wilcox stands at the head of feminine writers, and 
her verses and essays are more widely copied and read than 
those of any other American literary woman.’—WNew York 

orld. “Power and pathos characterize this magnificent 
poem. A deep understanding of life and an intense sympathy 
are beautifully expressed.""—Chicago Tribune. 
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MEN, WOMEN AND EMOTIONS. 


A skilful anatysis of social habits, customs and follies. A 
common-sense view of life from its varied standpoints....full 
of sage advice. : ¢ ; 

“These essays tend to meet difficulties that arise in almost 
every life......Full of sound and helpful admonition, and is 
sure to assist in smoothing the rough ways of life wherever it 
be read and heeded.” —FPittsburg Times. 
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THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF NOD. 


_ A collection of poems, songs, stories, and allegories dealing 
with child life. The work is profusely illustrated with dainty 
line engravings and photographs from life. b , 

“The delight of the nursery; the foremost baby’s book in 
the world.’’—W. O. Picayune. 
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AROUND THE YEAR WITH 
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX 


A Birthday Book Compiled from the 
Poetical and Prose Writings of 
Ella Wheeler Wilcox 


The many admirers of Mrs. Wilcox will welcome this vol- 
ume with genuine enthusiasm. It epitomizes her inspiring 
optimistic philosophy with an apposite quotation for every 
day in the circling year. GAN , : 

The book is a small quarto in size, beautifully printed on 
excellent paper with red-line borders, and handsomely peas 
in cloth, with exquisite half-tone illustrations prefacing eac 
month, and with author’s portrait. 


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